The Bed and the Bachelor (2 page)

“Then allow me to put it to rights. Hire me for the position, and I shall have your household running again as smoothly and easily as it ever did. More so, I dare say.”

“More so, hmm?” he mused in a mellow baritone that seeped through her like a draught of warmed brandy.

“You don’t lack for confidence, I’ll say that.” He paused, silence settling between them, as the frown returned to his brow. “You are clearly qualified and yet—”

Her chest squeezed painfully, fingers curled against her reticule to hide their trembling. Without thinking, she leaned forward in her chair. “
Please
, your lordship, I need this position. Travel from Scotland is not without expense, and my severance will only last me so long. Let me prove to you what an asset I can be. You won’t regret it, I swear.”

At least not right away, that is
, she added silently
.

Her mouth grew dry, pulse thudding dully in her veins as she waited for his answer. He simply had to say yes. Otherwise, she would have to resort to other measures, desperate ones that frightened her to even consider.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers, those clear green eyes of his burning into her own. Holding steady, she forced herself not to look away, not to flinch or in any manner reveal her duplicity.

Abruptly, he nodded. “Very well, Mrs. Greenway, you’ve convinced me. Starting tomorrow, you are my new housekeeper.”

Chapter 2

“ . . . A
nd this is your bedchamber,” the upper housemaid, Parker, announced the next day as she led Sebastianne into one of the third-floor attic rooms inside Lord Drake Byron’s town house.

Glancing around, Sebastianne set her black leather portmanteau on the floor beside the plain pine bed with its clean but simple counterpane of faded blue chintz. As she did, she took note of the freshly whitewashed walls, narrow oak wardrobe and washstand with its blue china washbowl and pitcher arranged on top. A small painting of a shepherd tending his flock hung on the wall. Despite the room’s admittedly spare decoration, it seemed comfortable and tidy, any aspect of closeness held at bay by the surprisingly good quantity of summer light flooding in through a pair of dormer windows.

Nevertheless, her chest contracted with a wistful pang as she thought of her room at home, with its pretty buttercup yellow walls, flowered curtains and rosewood writing table. Since the war, the little cottage near Montsoreau had grown shabby. Yet she’d done everything in her power to keep it cheerful and bright, cherishing the few luxuries still left, as well as the memories of happier times.

She’d learned to make do these last few years, learned to accept hardship and struggle, and she would do so again now. She would do whatever was necessary to secure her family’s safety and be back with them once more in their
petite
maison
near the Loire.

If all went well, she told herself, that reunion would not be long in coming. A couple of weeks—a month at most—and she would have the information she needed to satisfy her handlers. Then Anne Greenway, housekeeper, would cease to exist, and Sebastianne Dumont would be able to be her true self again. Until then, she had a part to play, one the young maidservant across from her needed to believe without question.

Sebastianne had already caught the look of curious speculation in the other woman’s dark eyes despite her outward show of friendliness. She knew she was going to be watched, measured and tested by her fellow servants every bit as much or more than by the master himself. If she had any hope of success, Sebastianne knew she would need to be on guard every moment of the day—and even, she feared, at night.

“You’re to ’ave the room all to yerself, of course, you bein’ the housekeeper an’ everything,” Parker offered, as if echoing Sebastianne’s musings about her nocturnal circumstances. “Me an’ Edith—Cobbs, that is—share a room just down the hall,” the maidservant continued, hands clasped behind her short, slightly rounded frame. “Finnegan and Polk—they’re the kitchen maid and scullion—they share the room beneath the eaves. Last room belongs to Mrs. Tremble—she’s the cook and has been with his lordship from the first day he owned this house.”

“And how long has that been?” Sebastianne inquired with polite interest.

Parker scrunched up her mahogany eyebrows in thought. “Well now, going on eight year, I think. Mrs. Beatty was with him all that time too afore she gave her notice. She were the housekeeper here prior to yerself, ye see.”

“Yes, so I am given to understand,” Sebastianne stated, straightening her shoulders at the sudden unspoken challenge in the housemaid’s voice and eyes.

Despite the fact that she and the other young woman were likely a similar age—two-and-twenty in Sebastianne’s case—she couldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Forcing herself to hold firm, she met the housemaid’s gaze with implacable determination.

A few seconds later, Parker looked away.

Clearing her throat, the housemaid shuffled her feet beneath her starched black uniform skirts and crisp white apron. “Here now, I’d best be getting along else Mr. Stowe thinks I’m turning lazy. He said I were to see you settled and invite you to join everyone belowstairs soon as yer ready. He’ll assemble the staff then fer a proper introduction.”

Sebastianne nodded. “Thank you. Please inform Mr. Stowe that I shall be with him directly. I am eager to review the household since I am sure there is a great deal of work to be done.”

“Oh there’s always plenty of that,” Parker agreed, “even if his lordship hardly pokes his head out of his workroom most days. He’s a deep one, he is, but fair. And sharp. He may seem dreamy-like sometimes, lost in his figuring and inventions and such, but still, he don’t miss a trick. Always knows what’s what, his lordship does.”

Sebastianne swallowed against the fresh knot in her throat, wondering if the maidservant’s words had been spoken out of innocent observation or rather as a veiled warning instead? Either way, she decided, by the time this was over, she’d likely have enough knots tied in her insides to impress a bosun’s mate on His Majesty’s finest frigate.

Assuming I haven’t been unmasked as a spy by then and am locked in the hold of a prison hulk awaiting execution.

But that wasn’t going to happen, she assured herself. Her British accent was as flawless as a native’s, and she’d studied everything about housekeeping she could possibly need to know. There was no reason for anyone to suspect her of being someone other than the person she claimed to be.

Except for her youth, of course, since most housekeepers were in their forties or fifties or even older. Then too there was the fact that she’d never worked a day in her life as a servant. But those were minor details that could be overcome. She’d already faced the toughest challenge before her—getting hired. The rest would fall into place.

She hoped.

“Well, thank you for showing me to my room, Parker,” Sebastianne stated in a pleasant tone that also served as a clear indication of dismissal.

The maid stared for a moment before lowering her gaze. “Yes, ma’am. As I said, lots to do.”

“I am sure.”

She was also sure that Parker’s first stop would be the servants’ hall to gossip about her impressions of the new housekeeper, Sebastianne judged, as she watched the maid curtsey, then close the door behind her.

Only after the girl’s footsteps faded away did she release the breath she’d been holding and sink with trembling limbs onto the bed.

Mon Dieu,
I am so alone, so afraid. May the good Lord watch over and keep me from harm.

Forcing herself to stand again after a minute, she opened her portmanteau and began to unpack her meager array of belongings.

I
n another part of the house, Drake came awake with a start, blinking in confusion for a moment before realizing he was in his workroom. Obviously he’d fallen asleep at his desk again, dozing off sometime in the small hours of the night as he’d been mulling over his latest theorem.

Sitting up, he stretched his arms over his head to ease some of the stiffness from his muscles before running a set of fingers through his disheveled hair. He glanced at a gilt mantel clock to check the time, its hands mirroring those of the other half dozen, gently ticking timepieces perched in various locations around the room—all of them accurately calibrated to within a half second of each other.

At present, they all read twenty-one past nine in the morning.

He supposed he ought to make his way upstairs for a bath, shave and change of clothes, particularly since he was expected at Clybourne House later that day. His sister-in-law, Claire, was hosting her first nuncheon party of the Season, and his mother had given him strict instructions that he was to attend.

“Too much work will only make you dull,” Ava Byron had declared last week when the subject arose after a family dinner. “You’re forever wrapped up in one puzzlement or another, and a break will do you good.”

He’d sent her an indulgent smile. “But I like being ‘wrapped up’ in puzzlements, as well you know, Mama. Not to worry though. I shall be here for Claire’s fête since you ladies have both worked so hard on it.”

He only prayed Claire and his mother hadn’t invited a gaggle of dewy-eyed ingénues to the party as well, each one looking to snare a husband during her first London Season. He had no interest in young misses just out of the schoolroom and even less in marriage.

At least the visit would give him a chance to talk to his eldest brother, Ned, about a few refinements he was making to the cipher he’d developed in secret for the British government. Edward, the Duke of Clybourne—or Ned as he was known to the family—was highly placed in the War Office, the duke’s involvement known only to a select handful at the top.

Because of Drake’s talents as a mathematician, Ned had approached him a couple of years ago about doing code work for the government. Intrigued, he’d agreed, finding the endeavor not only challenging but worthwhile since he was as committed as the rest of his family to seeing Britain prevail in her fight against Napoleon.

So far, his forays into the world of espionage were proving an excellent complement to his other intellectual pursuits. Plus, the Crown paid a surprisingly excellent stipend, remuneration that a younger son—even the fourth son of a duke—wasn’t at all loath to receive.

Without warning, his stomach gave an irritable rumble that brought him back to the immediate matter at hand, however mundane it might seem. Reaching out, he straightened the notes scattered across the scarred and stained oak surface of his desk, then returned the crystal stopper to its bottle of ink. He left a variety of pens, pencils and nubs of chalk where they lay, not far from a dish full of bolts, a coil of thin copper wire, an open penknife and a hammer.

He stood, then walked from the room.

Located as it was on the ground floor in the rear of the town house, his workshop was closer to the servants’ back staircase than to the main stairs. Often he found it far more convenient to use the servants’ stairs to make a quick jog up to his suite of rooms on the second floor than to go around to the front.

Opening the concealed door in the wall, he started up.

He was just rounding the landing leading up to the final flight of steps when a swish of dark skirts and a pair of small, leather-clad shoes appeared directly above him.

“Oh!” cried a woman, her voice skimming over him like a silken hand.

He stopped just in time to avoid colliding with her, the two of them crowded bare inches from each other on the narrow staircase. “Mrs. Greenway, is that you?”

Her gaze met his, her golden eyes bright as a pair of copper pennies. “M-my pardon, your lordship, for not seeing you there.”

He brushed her apology aside. “No, no. Entirely my fault for taking the servants’ stairs.” He paused, tipping his head back for a better view.

And what a view it was
, he decided, finding Anne Greenway even more attractive than he remembered, with her graceful figure, winsome mouth and creamy complexion. A faint dusting of color spread across her cheeks, a pale pink that reminded him of the delicate inside of a seashell.

“So, you’ve arrived?” he said, the remark sounding foolish even to his own ears.

“Yes,” she agreed, her hands clasped at her trim waist. “Only this hour past.”

He crossed his arms, then lowered them again when he noticed that it only brought him closer to her. “Are you finding everything to your liking so far? Your room? Is it acceptable?”

A tiny V appeared between her eyebrows, her expression clearly indicating her surprise at the inquiry. Completely valid, he supposed, considering that most employers wouldn’t have bothered to ask at all.

“Yes,” she said. “More than acceptable. Thank you, your lordship.”

He rocked back on one heel. “And the house? Have you had a chance to look around?”

The frown and the look of surprise made a second appearance. “No, not yet. I was just making my way belowstairs in order to meet the staff and acquaint myself with the premises. I am most eager to begin my duties.”

A pleasing enough statement for a housekeeper, he judged, one any employer should be glad to hear. So why did he have the impression she wasn’t nearly as eager as she said but rather nervous instead? Then again, why shouldn’t she be nervous? After all, this was her first day of employment in a new city, in a new house with a new master and a houseful of servants who were strangers to her. Under those circumstances, he would likely be nervous too.

“You’ll do fine,” he said, surprising them both this time. “First days are always difficult.”

She paused, an arrested expression in her eyes. “They are indeed. Thank you for your confidence in me, your lordship.”

Her lashes lowered in a graceful sweep before she bent her head forward. As she did, a brilliant shaft of sunlight rained down from the window above, shining onto her neatly pinned hair. She wore no bonnet this time, her richly hued tresses creating a glorious riot of autumnal color—lush browns, gleaming reds and vibrant golds that ranged from pale ash to the deepest topaz. And entwined among them like rare strands of silver were those few grey hairs that ought to have once again reassured him of the appropriate advancement of her age.

Then he studied her face, finding her profile lovely and young.

Too young.

Too pretty.

Why did I hire her again?
he wondered.

Because you’re an idiot, that’s why,
came the answer.