The Bed and the Bachelor (8 page)

“Y-yes, I am sure it does.” She twisted her fingers against her skirts and glanced away. “If there are no special arrangements for tonight, then, I shall leave you once again to your work. I have disturbed you quite enough for one afternoon.”

Yes,
he thought,
you have,
warmth curling in his belly. “By the way, I shall take my dinner in here tonight.”

“As you wish, my lord. I will inform Mrs. Tremble.” Coming forward, she picked up the tea tray, with its now-empty plates and cups, then turned and departed.

More than a minute passed before Drake was able to focus enough to return to his calculations and equations.

W
hatever is the matter with me?
Sebastianne thought as she slid the tea tray into the dumbwaiter.
Why did I tell him I have brothers!
she asked herself, walking a few steps before pausing near the door to the servants’ staircase.

Hadn’t she been warned countless times against this very possibility? Hadn’t the operative who’d trained her given her a list of strict instructions from which she was not to deviate?

Always stick to your cover identity and don’t lose sight of your objective.

Never forget that Byron is a mark, and your reaction to him is irrelevant.

Work to gain the trust of the household, especially Byron, so you can locate and copy the cipher, then return to France.

And above all else, never reveal the details of your real life.

But France—and her real life—already seemed so far away, like a dream that might never come again. Her brothers, Luc and Julien . . . she ached for missing them. Papa, too. How much she wished she could be back with them all. And yet she was doing this for them, she reminded herself. She must, since there was no other way.

So why was it so difficult to harden her feelings toward Lord Drake? Why did her defenses weaken in his presence and make her forget they were enemies instead of two people sharing an enjoyable conversation? He’d told her about his family and without considering, she’d told him about hers, revealing details she never should have shared.

Then there was the awareness that hummed between them like a gathering storm, a silent connection that had nothing to do with plots or plans, but of genuine rapport instead. Genuine attraction too, fierce and fiery such as she’d never before experienced, not even with her darling Thierry.

But her love for her husband had been real, while her emotions for Lord Drake were . . . well, she didn’t know what they were other than dangerous.

And forbidden.

Temptingly, tantalizingly forbidden.

A tremor raced through her, her mouth growing dry. Then she scowled, the lines on her forehead becoming so tight the skin actually hurt. Abruptly aware of the discomfort, she forced the frown to ease.

Remember your instructions,
she reminded herself.

Remember that any feelings you might have for Drake Byron are immaterial.

Protecting my family is all that matters.

Accomplishing my mission is the only goal
—even if it was an objective not of her choosing but rather something that had been forced upon her by means of fear and threat of retribution.

She sighed, so tired of this war, so weary of the strife that had plagued what ought to have been good years, joyous times if only Thierry and Maman were still alive. But they were gone, and she had her duty, however repugnant it might be.

Straightening her spine, she resolved to do what she must. At least she’d made progress and gained permission to enter Lord Drake’s workroom. Surely the code was hidden someplace in that scattered mess of papers and projects, books and notes and gadgets. If it was there, she would find it.

She could afford to do no less.

The servants’ door swung open on well-greased hinges, Lyles walking through. “Mrs. Greenway,” he said by way of greeting. “I came up to clear away his lordship’s tray.”

“Already done,” she said. “However, please inform Mr. Stowe that Lord Drake will be dining in this evening. I shall do the same for Mrs. Tremble.”

“Right, ma’am. I’ll go find ’im now.”

“I believe Mr. Stowe is in the front drawing room replenishing supplies.”

Lyles smiled. “Maybe he can use some help.”

She watched as he disappeared up the long hallway. Only when she knew she was alone did she let a bit of the starch ease out of her shoulders. She had accounts to see to and fine pastry to make for his lordship’s dessert, so she’d best be getting on with it.

Rallying again, she started downstairs.

Chapter 7

O
ver the next three days, Lord Drake remained in his workroom, coming and going from the chamber at erratic, thoroughly unpredictable hours of the day and night. This gave Sebastianne absolutely no opportunity to set her plan in motion to clean the room—and search it. Instead, she was forced to bide her time and concentrate on her duties as housekeeper.

In fact, the only time she actually saw Lord Drake was when she brought his tea or a meal to him. He was unfailingly pleasant on these occasions, but distracted, his thoughts clearly somewhere besides the confines of his house on Audley Street. The few brief glimpses she was able to get of his work led her to suspect he was postulating theories regarding the solar system. Her assumption was further reinforced by the large, finely made orrery she caught operating a time or two, the tiny model planets circling impressively on their wire-suspended, clockwork-driven orbits.

When she was a child, her father had owned one of the wondrous machines; she could remember watching it in fascination as he told her about the stars, moons and planets and how each one revolved around the sun.

But her father’s orrery was long gone, destroyed in a house fire in Paris the year before her mother died, together with a number of priceless family mementos and many cherished volumes from her father’s once-extensive book collection. She wondered if Lord Drake owned any of those same works and wished she had the luxury of exploring his library in depth.

But she resisted, confining herself to her duties instead. After all, it wouldn’t do for Lord Drake or the staff to discover her poring over his beautiful leather-bound books—particularly the ones related to science and mathematics. Not to mention the fact that a fair number of them were written in languages other than English, including her own native French.

While on her daily rounds inspecting the rooms for dust and general cleanliness, she’d noticed that he maintained volumes in more than a dozen languages, including Greek, Latin, French, Arabic, Russian and Italian. She could read all those except the Arabic. As for the rest, she could only hazard an educated guess about their origin and contents.

What about Lord Drake? Was he able to read all those languages? She rather suspected he could and perhaps a few more as well.

Now, early on the fourth morning, Lord Drake finally emerged from his self-imposed hibernation. She was crossing the hallway with an armful of neatly pressed linens when he opened the door and stepped out of his workroom, pausing for a moment to stretch his arms above his head in a most appealing manner. His clothing and hair were rumpled, she saw, his cheeks shadowed with at least two days’ growth of whiskers. Despite his disheveled appearance, though, he looked delectable.

She tightened her arms around the sheets and schooled her features so they revealed nothing of her inner thoughts. “Good morning, your lordship,” she said with polite deference.

He smothered a yawn, one that failed to erase the smile that played around his mouth. “And to you, Mrs. Greenway. A brilliant day, is it not?”

Considering the thick, dark storm clouds lumbering menacingly on the horizon, she wasn’t sure “brilliant” was an apt description. But who was she to gainsay Lord Drake’s clearly buoyant good humor? He must have made substantial progress in his calculations, she surmised. Papa always celebrated like a little boy who’d found an extra franc in the street when he finished one of his equations. Apparently Lord Drake took after him in that regard.

“Well, the garden does need watering,” she observed.

His grin widened, clearly approving her optimism. “Exactly.” Another yawn caught him just then, his eyes tearing slightly in a way that made his translucent green eyes sparkle like gems. Still smiling, he wiped the moisture away with the edge of his fingers.

I wonder if he slept at all last night?
Assuming his latest mathematical proof was indeed finished, he could afford to get some rest—and take a morning meal.

“Shall I have breakfast sent up to your bedchamber?” she asked. “Or would you prefer to dine in the morning room?”

He sent her a brief contemplative look, rubbing a large palm over his stomach. “I am famished, now that you mention it. Tell Mrs. Tremble I’ll be wanting the full board this morning, including some of her excellent beef-and-kidney pie, if she has any in the larder.”

Sebastianne smiled. “I believe she prepared one fresh only yesterday.”

“And eggs. Be sure to fry them so the yolks are warm and runny.”

“Warm and runny they shall be.”

“Good.” He paused, his gaze roaming slowly over her face for a contemplative moment before glancing away. “Well, I’d best be on my way upstairs.”

So should I,
she thought, but she wasn’t about to follow after him. The linens could remain here on the ground floor while she went to consult with the cook. Clutching the sheets more tightly against her chest, she waited for him to precede her.

He turned and started for the staircase, then stopped. “Oh, one more thing. I shall be going out this evening, so please inform Mrs. Tremble that I will not require dinner.”

So he will be gone tonight, will he?
she thought. If she arranged matters right, she would have a chance to search his workroom. Swallowing against a sudden pang of nerves, she nodded her understanding.

For a moment he looked as if he might say more. Instead, he turned on his heel once again and leapt up the stairs with far more energy and agility than a man who’d lost a night’s sleep ought to have.

Sighing, she too went on her way.

R
ather than wait until Lord Drake left the house that evening, Sebastianne decided to start cleaning his workroom while it was still light outside—or at least as light as the rainy day would allow. After all, he’d given her permission to proceed at a time when he was not using the room, and what better occasion than a day when he was sound asleep upstairs?

She’d learned this helpful bit of information from Waxman, who had appeared in the servants’ hall to inform the staff in a deadly serious tone that his lordship was resting and was not to be disturbed. He shot a very pointed look at Parker and Cobbs, who’d been gossiping together over a midday cup of tea. They grew instantly silent and assured the valet that they would tread on cat’s feet should their duties take them anywhere near the master’s rooms.

The moment Waxman departed, the two young women had rolled their eyes at each other, placed a single finger each against their lips and mimed a humorless “Shh.” Whereupon they both began to giggle.

Tremble shushed them for being “pert” and “full of unbecoming nonsense,” but Sebastianne knew the two maids were only teasing and that they would rather walk over broken glass in their bare feet than cause Lord Drake a moment’s displeasure.

The entire staff felt that way, everyone treating his lordship with a warm respect that bordered on adoration. For in spite of his eccentricities, Lord Drake was generous and kind and always treated his servants with consideration and respect.

“Best master I’ve ever had the privilege to serve,” Mr. Stowe had told Sebastianne once, and even in the brief time she’d worked there, she had to agree.

Which left her stomach twisting and her hands damp when she went into his workroom that afternoon, knowing she was about to betray him—or at least make an earnest attempt to do so.

But it has to be done,
she told herself as she pushed aside her qualms.

Having already informed the staff that she—and she alone—would be cleaning Lord Drake’s workroom, she entered the chamber and closed the door behind her.

Nearly three hours later, she’d rid the room of a great deal of dust, hidden grime, and small items clearly destined for the rubbish bin—broken pen nibs, bits of chalk, spent ink blotters, wadded-up scraps of paper and assorted other useless ephemera that he’d obviously never quite managed to throw away. She’d taken special care not to disturb any of his books and papers, as she’d flipped methodically through each one in search of scribbled notes and equations related to the cipher.

The rain stopped as she cleaned, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds to spread a cheerful illumination through the room. In spite of extra light, however, her efforts proved futile, at least when it came to uncovering the cipher.

Tired and irritated, she wiped the back of one arm across the light sheen of perspiration beading her forehead and despaired of ever locating the secret code.

He must have hidden it,
she realized.

But where?

Perhaps it was in a locked cabinet or even a money chest? But she saw no evidence of a metal safe or vault, and as for the cabinets, she’d already checked inside those and found nothing out of the ordinary.

She was just about to begin her search again with an eye to finding a concealed strongbox, when she heard a footfall that made her turn and look up.

Lord Drake stood on the threshold—freshly bathed and shaved, his close-trimmed chestnut hair brushed neatly away from his face. As for his attire, he looked utterly resplendent in a black evening coat and breeches with fine white linen, a Marcella waistcoat and polished black leather dress shoes.

For a moment, she couldn’t tear her gaze from him, captivated by his sheer masculine splendor. To say he was handsome was a gross understatement. Looking as he did, she was sure he could stop any woman in her tracks and make her pant with hopeful lust for his time and attention.

At the thought of time and lust, she wondered where he was going this evening. Was he planning to pay a visit to his mistress, perhaps?

Her hands clenched at her sides at the idea before she shook off the reaction. Whatever his plans, she scolded herself, they didn’t matter to her. The only thing of importance was finding the blasted cipher and the place where he’d hidden it.

She didn’t move or speak as he glanced around the room, one of his eyebrows arching upward in obvious recognition of her housekeeping efforts.

“Am I going to have to sack you, after all, Mrs. Greenway?” he drawled, as he continued to survey the room. “Considering your promise not to disturb any of my things, this room appears rather too shipshape for comfort.”

Her stiff posture unfroze, annoyance over his accusation warming her muscles. Perhaps her primary goal had been to search for the cipher, but she’d done an excellent job cleaning and sorting through his mess while she was at it. The least he could do was show some appreciation!

“Everything is still here and where you can easily locate it,” she countered. “As for the room being ‘too shipshape,’ that’s because I took a dust cloth, a broom, and a rubbish bin to the problem. In future, you oughtn’t let the stray bits collect so long. I mean, honestly, would it hurt you to toss out broken pen quills and bits of used-up chalk every now and then?”

“Ah,” he said, “but that’s why I employ a full complement of staff. So they can toss out the stray bits for me.”

“When you let them,” she replied. “Mrs. Beatty must have had her hands full.”

Suddenly she stopped, realizing she sounded more like a young woman who’d grown up speaking her own mind than the respectful, deferential servant she was supposed to be. What if Lord Drake took offense and actually did dismiss her? Then where would she be?

Waiting quietly, she listened to her heart pound out a frantic tattoo in her chest.

A long moment passed before a begrudging smile curved his lips—much to her profound relief.

“And now it seems the reverse is true,” he remarked.

As she contemplated his meaning, he strolled farther into the room.

Does he mean he has his hands full with me?

Before she could form a retort she knew she oughtn’t make, he began flipping through various books and papers, making little “umms” and “hmms” low in his throat as he conducted a kind of audit.

“You’ll find everything in order,” she stated when he offered no actual words of criticisms.

“It all
seems
to still be here.”

“Just as I assured you it would.” Spine straight, she folded her hands at her waist.

He ambled toward the large, movable slate board and stopped to peruse the chalk-written calculations that crowded the surface.

“Your astronomical equations are completely intact,” she said. “I didn’t touch so much as the chalk dust on the frame.”

He swung sharply around and pinned her with a look, his eyes suddenly narrowed. For long seconds, he stared. “How did you know that proof deals with astronomy? For that matter, how is it you’re even familiar with astronomy? It’s not a commonplace discipline.”

A sick lump dropped to the bottom of her stomach.

Oh, my accursed tongue,
she fretted.
I really ought to have cut it out long ago.
Now look what I’ve done.
And if she hoped to salvage the situation, she knew she’d better think and think fast.

“Well,” she said slowly, giving herself as much time as possible to form a reply. “You’ve got dozens of books and notes strewn from one end of the room to the other, all dealing with planets and stars and moons. I couldn’t help but read a few words here and there. Not to mention the o—”