The Lady’s Secret (10 page)

Harland stayed in his chamber the whole time she worked. She asked him twice more if he’d prefer her to leave and twice he assured her it was perfectly all right and she should pay him no heed.

She stumbled through her tasks, clumsy and self-conscious, her eyes continually drawn to his relaxed body, flickering away when he glanced up from his book from time to time and caught her watching him. She wished he would leave, partly because he unsettled her and partly because she was anxious to get her bearings in the house and find out from the servants where the estate records might be found.

Eventually she was able to escape to fetch hot water. She made her way down to the unfamiliar kitchens to stand in line with a host of other visiting servants, none of whom knew anything about the house when she tried to question them.

By the time she got back upstairs, Harland had fallen asleep. The candlelight flickered its shadows over his smooth skin and his face bore a boyish, uncomplicated expression she never saw on him during his waking hours. She realised she was staring and looked away, hating her preoccupation with him when she had something so much more important to be thinking about.

The moment she’d laid eyes on this man, she’d found out what it was to want. What a time to discover the sharpness of desire. She was here to find proof of her and Harry’s birthright. Her ridiculous yearning for Harland—a man who was only supposed to be her pathway to this place—would not promote her purpose.

Irritated with herself, and with him, she clattered the kettle of steaming water down. The noise startled Harland awake. He rose up onto one elbow, his dark eyes disorientated for a moment, until he saw her.

“My apologies, your lordship,” she murmured, turning aside to open the shaving case.

“Not at all. I need to get ready.” Harland yawned widely then added, “Dinner is at seven.”

He levered himself off the bed and stretched his long body with languid grace while Georgy, who was trying not to look, brought a straight backed chair forward for him to sit on while she shaved him. As soon as he sat down she began to dab lather over his face, noticing that his eyes were on her own face as she did so. It was disconcerting. Usually he was inattentive, his gaze elsewhere, but today he followed all her movements, and when she finally leaned over him, brandishing a razor, he tilted his chin to stare up at her. The silence between them seemed to take on weight and charge—it became a physical thing with uncomfortable edges.

She tried to work round the silence, to ignore the insistent pull of his gaze. But eventually her eyes flickered to his and—she couldn’t help it—she faltered, her feet tangling in an uncertain backwards half step. Her grip on the handle of the razor slipped too, an alarmed cry leaving her lips. Desperate to prevent the razor falling on his upturned face, she fumbled to catch it, her hand fastening around the blade. She felt it slice into her skin and another cry emerged, of pain this time.

She stepped away and opened her hand to drop the razor on the floor, registering the fat drops of blood that followed it with odd detachment. Vaguely she was aware of Harland jumping up and the chair falling to the ground behind him. He whipped the towel from his shoulders and grabbed her hand, turning it over to display two parallel cuts, one bisecting the breadth of her palm, the other the mid-joints of her fingers. One cut for each side of the blade. Dark crimson blood welled sluggishly from the wounds and dripped down the side of her hand to land like fat ink blots on the floor.

“My god!” Harland exclaimed, wrapping the towel around her hand and pressing hard. “What happened?”

“I—I stumbled,” Georgy muttered, feeling lightheaded. “I’m sorry. So—so clumsy of me…”

“Don’t be absurd. Sit.” He pushed her backwards till the back of her thighs hit the bed. His right hand on her shoulder urged her to sit while his left gripped the towel. Once she was sitting, he took her uninjured hand and pressed it on top of the towel.

“Hold this.”

He fetched another towel and wiped the lather from his face, then crossed the room to pull the bell rope. A moment later he returned to her side and took her hand again, his dark silky head bent over, tantalisingly close. He was half naked still. Her eyes wandered over his smooth broad shoulders, the back of his neck, the strong line of his curving spine. Her mouth all but watered, the fingers of her uninjured hand tingling with the need to touch him. She wanted to protest when the knock came at the door and he stood to walk away again.

He sent the maid at the door for bandages and salve then came back to Georgy’s side to gently unpeel the towel and look at her bloody hand.

“Let’s clean this,” he said.

“There’s no need—”

“Be quiet, there’s a good chap.” Harland fetched the basin from the armoire and filled it with some of the still-warm water Georgy had brought up from the kitchens. He picked up the cravat he’d abandoned earlier, submerging the pure snowy fabric in the water.

“Not your cravat!” Georgy protested automatically, thinking of how difficult it would be to get the blood out. But he ignored her, wringing it out and using it to wipe the smears of blood that surrounded the cuts, careful not to touch the edges of sliced flesh.

The linen drank the blood up greedily, turning the water pink when he dipped it back in the basin. Georgy stared at the pink water, feeling woozy. She’d never been good with blood.

The maid returned with a bottle, a jar and an armful of bandages. After a brief discussion, Harland dismissed her and returned to Georgy’s side, dropping down to his knees and taking her hand in his.

“Try to keep still.”

The bottle contained a dark brown liquid that smelled acrid. He soaked a bit of bandage with it and dabbed it onto each cut, making Georgy hiss her breath in at that burn of it. The oily looking salve was more soothing. He lathered that on profusely and it numbed the sting within moments. He bandaged her hand then, laying a strip of linen across his knees then drawing her hand onto it before deftly wrapping. After securing it in place, he looked up.

“How does that feel?”

She lifted her hand and experimentally curled her fingers, feeling tenderness and pain.

“Better,” she said. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

God, his smile.
There was invitation in it. Or something. Something direct and real. Their gazes held for a long, heart-stuttering moment until she panicked and looked away, all confusion. And then he was standing up and lifting the ruined cravat from the bowl again, kneeling down to wipe up the drops of blood from the floor. When he was finished, he lifted the razor and cleaned the blade.

“Oh, please don’t,” Georgy protested, horrified. “I can do that later.”

“And I can do it now. I’m not completely helpless, you know. I can even manage to shave and dress myself without your assistance, when the occasion demands.” He grinned. “Well, with very little assistance anyway.”

“But I’m fine!”

“No you’re not. You’re as white as a sheet. Go and lie down for a while. I’ll get myself ready.” When she opened her mouth he held up a hand. “I’ll call you if I need help with my coat. Now go. Quite aside from this, you’ve been on the go for twelve hours at least.”

And with that unfamiliar bit of solicitude, he turned around and began to lather up his face again. She stared at his broad back for a moment. And then she walked wearily towards the dressing room to lie down on her narrow truckle bed.

After Harland had gone down to join the other guests, one of the maids knocked on the door to tell Georgy that the kitchen would be serving dinner for the upper servants shortly. Georgy took the opportunity to quiz the girl about the layout of the house under the guise of asking directions to the kitchens.

It seemed she was in luck. Some of the guests’ chambers were on the floor above, but Harland was one of the guests who had been given rooms on the same floor as the family. The maid happily informed her that all the master’s rooms—his bedchamber, dressing room and study—were further down the corridor, just round the corner from Harland’s own.

Georgy assured the maid she would be down shortly, then waited until the girl had been gone several minutes before emerging from the chamber. But instead of turning left towards the servants’ staircase, she turned right, following the corridor into the east wing of the house where the family’s rooms were.

Half a dozen identical closed doors lined the hallway. She was staring at them, wondering which were Dunsmore’s rooms, when one of them unexpectedly opened and the man himself emerged. The candles in the wall-sconces flickered from the sudden draught and Georgy took an alarmed step backwards.

“Who are you?” Dunsmore demanded, his dark brows beetling. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I beg your pardon, my lord,” Georgy stammered. “I’m Lord Harland’s man. I must have taken a wrong turn. I was looking for the servants’ way down to the kitchens.”

She darted a glance behind him. The room behind him was almost dark, but a dying fire cast enough light for her to see it was a study, dominated by a large desk. When she glanced back at Dunsmore, he was regarding her suspiciously.

She gave him a deferential bow and turned back the way she’d come, forcing herself to walk at an unhurried pace. Behind her she heard the scrape of his key in the lock.

When she entered the busy, chaotic kitchens a few minutes later, her stomach began to rumble at the wonderful smells that permeated the air and she realised it had been many hours since she’d last eaten. Mrs. Watt was giving the footmen their instructions for service of the meal while the cook and his assistants served up the second course.

Georgy felt dizzy watching the feast being ferried past her on its way to the dining room. Gleaming silver platters were heaped with roast fowl—capon, quail, partridge and something large that she guessed must be goose or peafowl. There were several large joints of roast meat, lamb cutlets and stewed sweetbreads. Veal escalopes too, these last swimming in creamy béchamel sauce. Footmen carried up trays of potatoes, celery, endive and salad. And then there were the sweets—fruit tarts, pineapple jelly…the dishes kept coming and coming.

She waited until all the food had left the kitchen before she stepped forward and Mrs. Watt noticed her.

“Ah, Mr. Fellowes, at last. I was wondering when you’d arrive. How is your hand?”

“It is fine now, ma’am. Thank you for the salve. My apologies for my lateness.”

“No matter, Mr. Fellowes. You are not late. None of the upper servants have eaten. The others are waiting in the servants’ dining room.”

Mrs. Watt pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen, then turned her attention back to the footmen, effectively dismissing Georgy.

The servants’ dining room was a large, plainly furnished room dominated by a huge oak table. Numerous tallow candles burned brightly on the table, sideboards and on wall sconces. There were perhaps sixteen servants in the room, most of them ladies’ maids and valets by the look of them, the personal attendants of the lords and ladies presently sitting down to dinner in the formal dining room upstairs. They stood at the far end of the room, drinking hot punch. Steam rose from a large glass punch bowl on the sideboard, giving out the scent of Christmas, spicy and rich.

In its small way, this group of upper servants was as elite as their masters and mistresses upstairs. None of them needed to scrub floors or black stoves or clean out fireplaces. They received their employers’ hand-me-down clothes, did not wear uniforms and earned many times more than the scullery maids.

As one, they turned to look at Georgy.

“Good evening,” one of the younger women said, smiling. She wore a smart pale blue dress and had brown hair coiffed in a simple but attractive style. It was her slightly flat vowels that gave away her status more than anything else. “Are you Lord Harland’s man?” she asked. “I’m sure I’ve met all the others now.”

Georgy banished her nerves and smiled. “Yes, I am. George Fellowes, at your service, miss.”

The girl—who looked to be about the same age as Georgy—smiled. “I’m Tilly Brown, Miss Howard’s maid. Gosh, you do look young to be a valet to a man like Lord Harland! However did you get such a position at your age?”

Georgy shrugged. “I’ve only had one position before this—I was lucky his lordship was willing to take me on.”

At last Mrs. Watt appeared, accompanied by the cook, and they were ready to eat. The butler, Mr. Jenkins, took the head of the long table and the rest of the servants gradually filled in the seats on either side, silently following long-standing rules of precedence. Georgy saw that Dunsmore’s valet took a seat at Mrs. Watt’s right hand so Georgy aimed for a seat close to him, in recognition that her master was also an earl.

Within a very few minutes, several kitchen maids appeared bearing platters and trays and tureens of soup. Some of the food was left over from the first course that had been served to the guests upstairs, the rest were dishes that had been prepared for the servants themselves. It was an odd mix of plain English cooking and fine French cuisine. Meat pie on one platter, then trout
à la genevoise
on the next.

“Is it true there’s to be a servants’ ball, Mrs. Watt?” Tilly asked once they had all been served and were tucking in with gusto.

Mrs. Watt inclined her head as regally as any duchess. “It’s a Christmas tradition at Dunsmore Manor. I’ve been here for eighteen years and we’ve had it every year. And for many years before my arrival.” She paused. “The family—and their guests—take an early dinner so we can finish our duties early. The ball starts at ten o’clock. The family and guests usually come for the first hour and then the staff are left to enjoy themselves for a few more hours.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Tilly sighed.

Mrs. Watt glanced at the girl reprovingly. “It’s hard work. The staff have to prepare all the food and drink for the ball as well as an early dinner for the family and then we’re all up early as usual to prepare for Christmas Day.” Then she smiled, looking almost warm for a moment. “But, yes, we enjoy it. And the next day—after the family’s Christmas dinner which is served before the usual time, at five o’clock—we’re allowed to retire early.”