The Bed and the Bachelor (6 page)

For whether she cared to admit it or not, Lord Drake was an undeniably attractive man, and she was far from immune to him or the sexuality he seemed to exude like the bouquet of a fine, robust wine. She didn’t even think he was aware of his appeal, his thoughts much too inwardly focused to pay heed to such personal conceits as his own looks or charm.

Indeed, he’d appeared rather disheveled, his hair framing his face in a careless disarray of silky caramel waves, his clothing properly buttoned and tucked, yet lacking the crisp elegance of a well-turned-out aristocrat. And for a few brief moments, she believed she’d caught a hint of musk and gardenias that clung to him like a pair of lover’s arms.

Was he with a woman tonight?

Her fingers tightened reflexively around the brass candlestick she held before she forced them to relax again. Then, with a rueful shake of her head and a Gallic shrug worthy of her paternal ancestors, she brushed the reaction aside.

Why should I care if he keeps a mistress?
she reasoned. Truly it would be odd if he did not. After all, what man of his station and circumstances would choose not to avail himself of feminine companionship, particularly a man as innately virile as Lord Drake? He might be an intellectual, who often lost himself in his work, but that didn’t mean he lacked the usual male drives and needs. Even on so short an acquaintance as theirs, she sensed the deep vein of passion that ran in his blood and suspected he brought the same level of focus and intensity to his lovemaking as he did to his work.

Shivery warmth tingled low in her belly at the thought of Lord Drake in bed, making her aware just how long it had been since she’d been with a man. How many years had passed since she’d even thought of one in such a way.

She’d been a virgin when she’d married Thierry, and there had been no one since. After his death, she’d been too wrapped up in her grief and in the day-to-day demands of simple survival to give a moment’s thought to such matters—particularly given the selection of men still living in the village. They were either too young or too old, all the ones fit for service having gone to war.

Yet in no more than a day, she found herself reacting with awakened interest to a man who was little more than a stranger, wondering what it would be like to be held in Drake Byron’s arms. To be kissed. To be loved.

Bah! C’est ridicule!

She was lonely and missing home, that was all. Why else would she be having such insane thoughts and inappropriate imaginings?

Sleep—that’s what she needed. Several deep, dreamless hours in which she could forget all about Lord Drake and her unexpected attraction to him. When she awakened in the morning, her awareness of her new employer would be gone, nothing more than a vague fantasy that was quickly and easily forgotten.

And if it was not?

Then she would do her utmost to avoid him, keeping to her duties and her mission, hoping she would locate the cipher soon so she could be on her way.

Covering a sudden yawn with a palm, she walked toward the stairs and started up to her bedchamber.

Chapter 5

T
he next week passed quickly, although not in the way Sebastianne had hoped. Despite the modest size of the household, there was nothing modest about her duties, which kept her steadily occupied from morning to night. Given such constraints on her energy and time, she had scant opportunity to search the town house for the cipher. On the rare occasion when she did find herself alone during the day, she took the opportunity to sort through a drawer here and there and inspect a few likely-looking volumes on the library shelves. So far, though, her efforts had proven fruitless.

As she had from the beginning, she strongly suspected that the code was being kept in one of two locations—Lord Drake’s workroom or his bedchamber—neither of which was easily searched, particularly with Waxman, Parker and Cobbs never more than a quick shout away.

Then there was Lord Drake himself, who came and went with no reliable pattern, exactly as he’d informed her was his habit. One day he’d leave the house early in the morning, then spend the evening at home, while the next he’d shut himself into his workroom for the afternoon, then depart for a late evening out. From what she’d observed and a few comments made by the staff, Lord Drake required very little sleep, seeming to exist quite satisfactorily on four or five hours a night.

After almost getting caught by him on her first evening in residence, she’d been afraid to sneak around at odd hours, worried he might appear unexpectedly and find her out. So instead she concentrated on learning her new job—no small feat—and settling more solidly into the household.

She also did her best to limit the amount of time she spent around Lord Drake—an arrangement that seemed to suit him as much as it did her. She ought to have been glad he made it so easy to forget the heightened tension of that first night. Forgetting was what she wanted, after all. Wasn’t it? Still, she couldn’t help but wonder at his polite, yet distant reaction to her of late.

Had he also been affected by their encounters and thought it best to avoid further fraternization? Then again, mayhap those moments on the servants’ staircase and later in the night-darkened hallway had meant nothing to him, and he was merely behaving with the careless indifference with which most employers treated their servants.

Domestic servants, after all, were supposed to be all but invisible, quietly doing the work of the household before fading back into its shadows. Her greatest problem, she guessed, was that she didn’t think of herself as a servant.

She hadn’t grown up believing in the inherent right of a wealthy, privileged few to rule the masses. Her father was the dispossessed, impoverished son of a French gentleman and had lost everything in the Revolution. Rather than rely on the faded glory of his birthright, he’d made his own way in the world as a mathematician, as one of the intellectual elite. She was proud of his achievements, and had always regarded him as being every inch as worthy as anyone—even a king!

Although she couldn’t accuse Lord Drake of being a snob, he was nevertheless the son of a duke and a member of the aristocracy. To the English way of thinking, with its rigidly entrenched class system, he was her superior in all ways—breeding, intellect, manners, privileges and rights.

Which meant that for the present, she needed to take particular care to appear mindful of her supposed “proper place,” especially around the other servants, who would notice any irregularities in her attitudes and opinions. Remaining aware of that essential point was proving every bit as difficult as pretending to be a knowledgeable housekeeper—as much at times as fulfilling her mission as a spy.

“Is his lordship’s tea ready?” Sebastianne asked Mrs. Tremble that afternoon as the two of them stood on opposite sides of the big wooden table in the kitchen.

“Nearly done,” the cook declared as she picked up a gleamingly sharp knife and cut the crust off a few slices of bread with a practiced hand.

In less time than Sebastianne would have imagined, the sandwiches were made and on a plate. With deft efficiency, Mrs. Tremble filled another plate with biscuits and sweetmeats, then added a dish of blackberries that had come fresh from the market that morning—the fruit one of his lordship’s favorites, Sebastianne had been told.

“There ye are,” Mrs. Tremble stated, as she spooned thick, clotted cream into a shallow china dish alongside one she’d already filled with golden-sweet honey. “Want me to ring for Parker?”

“No,” Sebastianne said, arranging the plates and dishes on a silver tray in a way that left room for the teapot that Mrs. Tremble was now in the process of filling with boiling water. “I’ll take it up myself today.”

She could have let Parker carry the tray upstairs to Lord Drake, but since she’d had no opportunity yet to get inside his workroom—where he’d been closeted since early morning—this seemed an excellent chance to gain entry.

“As ye like.” Mrs. Tremble set the heavy china pot onto the tray, then, duty done, returned to her dinner preparations.

Lifting the tray, Sebastianne walked out of the kitchen and a short way down the hall to the dumbwaiter that was fitted into the wall.

The small elevator, which worked on a system of weights and pulleys, was nothing less than a godsend for the staff, who used it to transport a wide variety of items between floors. It saved substantial time and energy and was just one of the many interesting and highly useful mechanical improvements Lord Drake had installed in the house. Among them were: outdoor gas lamps that illuminated the front entry and the rear garden; a pump that brought fresh water into the kitchen and laundry; and, most astonishing of all, a modern bathing chamber in his lordship’s suite of rooms that contained an immense tub, a tall, boxlike stall called a “shower” and a copper water reservoir with a coal-fired heating element that Lord Drake had engineered himself.

For the present, however, she was grateful for the more ordinary marvel of the dumbwaiter. Honestly, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to carry the heavy meal upstairs on her own—at least not without overbalancing the china and sloshing hot tea across the linen-covered silver tray.

After working the pulleys and securing the box on the ground floor, she went upstairs to collect its contents. With Lord Drake’s workroom close by, it was a quick walk to his door. Balancing the tray, she gave a knock. A long silence followed, so she knocked again.

“Come,” he called after another lengthy pause, his tone clearly distracted.

She opened the door and moved into the room. “Good afternoon, your lordship,” she said cheerfully. “I’m here with your tea and a bite to eat.”

He didn’t look up from where he sat hunched over a wide wooden desk, the pencil he held moving swiftly across a sheaf of paper. More notes and several books lay scattered haphazardly around him, his chestnut hair tumbled into careless disarray as if he’d spent the better part of the last hour or more running his fingers through it. Very likely he had done just that, she decided, as she watched him work, the rhythmic ticking of the various clocks scattered around the room providing the only intrusion.

Finally, his pencil ceased, and he raised his head to cast her a sideways glance. His shoulders seemed to tighten for a moment before relaxing again. “Mrs. Greenway, good day. Where is Parker?”

Since Mrs. Beatty’s departure, Parker had taken to bringing Lord Drake his tea. This was only the second time since Sebastianne had become housekeeper that he had been home in the afternoon long enough to require that tea be served.

“Parker is occupied with other duties,” she said, “so I am seeing to your repast myself. Where would you like to dine?” With the tray seeming to grow heavier by the moment, she cast about for a place to set it, but every surface was covered.

Piles of papers and periodicals rose in small hills and valleys across every surface and spare seat. Books—some open, others closed—towered in stacks and lined an entire wall of bookcases. A long workbench, the wood grooved and scarred by age and use, stretched the length of another wall, every surface covered in tools and wire and other mechanical paraphernalia, a great deal of which she couldn’t hope to identify. A row of glass bottles stood on a shelf filled with liquids of various colors and potency, their level of hazard unclear. Not far from his desk stood a large, modern-looking globe of the world and a huge slate set into a moveable wooden frame. Advanced mathematical calculations were written across the black slate in broad strokes of white chalk—calculations that had nothing whatsoever to do with the code, she saw, but which were fascinating nonetheless. She did her best not to study them too closely but to concentrate instead on finding a place to set the tray.

There wasn’t one.

Apparently realizing her dilemma, Lord Drake stood and crossed to a nearby table. Gathering up two stacks of newspapers and a pair of heavy leather-bound books, he shifted them aside. “There,” he stated. “Put the tray here.”

Gratefully, she did as he suggested. Straightening, she took another moment to glance around the room, linking her hands at her waist as she did. Then she remembered that, in her role as housekeeper, she ought to be pouring his tea.

In a rush, she reached out.

He chose that instant to do the same, their hands accidentally brushing together in midair over the teapot.

A charge like a spark of electricity ran through her, tingling as it traveled across her skin and through her body as though she were a human lightning rod. From the hum radiating along her nerves, she wondered if that might actually be the case.

Their gazes locked, his eyes a pure, translucent green that shone with the vibrancy of a new spring forest. In them burned a wealth of emotions that sent her heart pounding and her lungs searching desperately for air.

Then he blinked, and the look was gone.

So was his hand as he pulled away.

She did the same, withdrawing as quickly as he. Glancing down, she stared at her sturdy black leather boots and fought to steady her emotions. The entire episode had lasted no more than a few seconds, perhaps he hadn’t even noticed.

Drawing breath, she forced her gaze upward again. “Shall I—that is would you like me to pour?”

His eyebrows drew tight. “No. Leave the tea. I’ll see to it myself.”

She nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Dipping a quick curtsey, she took a step back to leave. As she did though, she remembered her real purpose for wanting inside this room—the cipher she’d made no progress so far in retrieving. This brief visit today had revealed nothing of use, not even a hint as to which of the many papers might hold the information she sought. She needed to be able to come in and out of the room at will without anyone questioning her presence—most especially Lord Drake!

But how?

In a sudden flash of insight, she had the answer—assuming she could convince Lord Drake that is. Drawing herself up, she met his gaze. “Your lordship, there is one more thing before I depart.”

His brows arched this time. “Oh?”

“I couldn’t help but notice the state of the room.”

His scowl returned.

“That is to say you must be aware it could do with a good cleaning and polishing.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps, but I like it the way it is. As I’m sure you’ve heard already, I don’t allow anyone to touch the things in my workspace.”

“Of course not, and I would treat your possessions with the utmost respect and the care they deserve. But even you must admit that every room requires a deep cleaning every now and again, even this one.”

“I let Parker sweep and run a cloth over the bare spots on occasion,” he grumbled, shifting his stance from one foot to the other. “That’s sufficient.”

“I beg pardon, but I must disagree, my lord, given the dust I can see on the books and many of the shelves as well. And from the smudges on the windows, they look as if they haven’t been washed in several months.”

His jaw tightened. “Be that as it may, I can’t have the maids in here buzzing around disturbing me, not to mention disturbing my things.”

“Then I shall arrange for a time when you are not present.”

He shook his head. “I used to have similar discussions with Mrs. Beatty, and we agreed that the servants could clean every room in the house. Every one
except
this one.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” she persisted, “but I am given to understand that you did let Mrs. Beatty inside to tidy up every now and again.”

“She took care not to rearrange my papers and such,” he admitted begrudgingly.

“As would I,” she said, her heart beating out a hopeful tattoo. “Why do we not have the same agreement as you did with Mrs. Beatty? I shall do the cleaning myself, and should you discover anything missing or out of place, you may reprimand me and dock my pay.”

“Or sack you,” he mumbled under his breath as if he had already contemplated such a thing.

She made no effort to pretend she had not heard. “You may do that as well should you find yourself displeased.”

And then wouldn’t I be in the broth,
she thought, her chest suddenly tight with fear.
Tossed out of the house without the cipher.
But she sensed this was her best chance, and if she didn’t find a way now, getting back into the room to search would be nearly impossible and doubly dangerous.