The Lady’s Secret (7 page)

Harland never mentioned their silent encounter in the park.

Georgy went back to the house that evening to discover that he was out and would not require her services until the next morning. She lay in bed that night, wondering if he would allude to what he had seen, but when morning came, he gave the same restrained greeting as always. After that he didn’t even much look at her, never mind speak. In short, he behaved just as usual.

And so another week passed much the same as the previous five, with Harland attending the usual round of morning rides, sporting events, sessions in the House and evening entertainments, for each of which occasions there was an ensemble of clothing to be readied.

Life as a valet wasn’t so very different from her life in the theatre. In the theatre she dressed the actors according to their parts. Dressing Harland in his exquisite clothes was much the same. The naked man she saw each morning started the day silent and introspective. But as he donned his civilised clothing, he gradually began to assume the mantle of the Earl of Harland. She could see his inward focus begin to turn outwards, his bearing begin to stiffen and the expression on his face harden, the fine features sharpening to take on their characteristic mocking glint.

It was not that he
permitted
his valet to see the man beneath the cynical, urbane veneer, but servants, Georgy was discovering, were uniquely placed to observe certain truths.

Her life revolved around him now. He was the sole focus of her existence. His desires gave her life its shape. It was peculiar—and slightly humiliating—to be so entirely devoted to another person’s wishes and to experience no reciprocation of interest from that person. Harland had never seen his devoted valet in the bath or sleeping or in
dishabille,
as his valet had seen him. He probably did not know that his butler’s sight was failing, that his cook’s daughter had just had twins or that his second footman was tupping one of the chambermaids. But every one of those servants could recite the names of Harland’s last half dozen fancy-women, his favourite things to eat and drink, and his preferred activities and companions. They knew him. Or at least, they knew certain details of his life. And Georgy knew more than most. The hours she spent with Harland were intimate ones, even if his attention was always elsewhere.

While he barely noticed her, Georgy’s knowledge of Harland grew and grew. He was known as a man of wit, the longed-for guest every hostess hoped to tempt to her entertainment. He was renowned for his fine clothes, excellent stable and incomparable wine cellar. His opinion on matters of fashion was highly sought after and he was considered an authority on all the accoutrements of aristocratic living—horseflesh, tailoring, fast women. But he was not the vain, self-satisfied fop she had expected.

She had watched him and seen that he loved beauty.

He had a framed sketch in his bedchamber that she had noticed on her first day in the house, a sketch portrait of a man’s head. The subject was looking down, as though reading or working at something, completely absorbed in whatever it was. His dress was antique, Elizabethan. His hair looked soft and touchable, the charcoal strokes lovingly rendered; she could imagine how it would feel in her fingers. He’d been drawn, she felt, by someone who loved him. In one of his more loquacious moments, Harland told her it was a Carracci. He looked at the sketch every day. Sometimes for just a few moments, sometimes for minutes on end.

It was just one of his treasures. His home was full of such things, pictures and silver and porcelain. Fine furniture and old books and manuscripts. They were symbols of wealth to be sure, but they were things he loved too. She saw it in the way he looked at them and held them. She recognised that pleasure, had felt it herself.

To her shame, thoughts of Harland consumed her waking hours. Even when she retired at night, in the precious few hours that were not professionally devoted to him and his desires, she thought of him, lustful feelings surging.

Was she an immoral woman, to want him with no care for the lack of a ring upon her finger? But she couldn’t help these desires; they came whether she willed them or no. Nor did she trouble herself to feel any guilt over the regularity with which her hand dipped between her legs to touch her own flesh, stroking herself until she managed to summon the secret shuddering pleasure of her night-time isolation.

Since the day he’d seen Fellowes kiss Lily in the park, Nathan had avoided looking him directly in the eye. But it was impossible to be unaware of him, and sometimes he found himself staring when Fellowes’ attention was elsewhere. He was now intimately familiar with the tender whorls of bright hair that graced the fine indentations at the nape of his valet’s pale neck.

It wasn’t, he told himself, that he found Fellowes attractive. He was not that way inclined. But he felt a pull, a draw that he was powerless to resist. He simply wanted—to look.

He fought this helpless fascination, for a servant of all people, with every bit of resistance he had in him. He was convinced it was not sexual interest but it still made him uncomfortable and he was scrupulous about hiding it, most especially from Fellowes himself. The trouble was that he couldn’t explain the phenomenon away to his own satisfaction. Instead, he worried at it almost constantly, growing more disturbed each day.

It was with some relief then, that Nathan stumbled upon an excuse for his interest in his valet.

One evening, Nathan rushed back home from an unexpectedly long session at the House. He had barely half an hour to dress for dinner at Lady Hillington’s and was irritable that he wouldn’t have time to bathe. As soon as he entered the house, he tossed his hat at the approaching footman and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst into his rooms with an impatient stride and stalked through to the dressing room, where Fellowes sat, comfortably ensconced in Nathan’s shaving chair.

In his hand Fellowes held a letter, which he had plainly just been reading. His expression at being caught in the act of reading a personal letter whilst sitting in his master’s chair was one of comical horror, but Nathan didn’t have time to indulge in amusement.

“I need a shave and clean evening clothes right away,” he said while removing his cravat.

“Of course, my lord.” Fellowes scrambled to his feet. His hands shook as he folded the letter hastily and pushed it in a pocket. He went to the bell rope to summon hot water and within minutes was wielding his razor. Within short order, Nathan was as immaculately turned out as if he’d spent two hours at his toilette instead of twenty minutes.

“No need to stay up,” Harland said as he departed. “One of the footmen can help me when I come back.”

It was an execrable dinner, yet he had to be there. Lady Hillington kept a dismal table but two of her guests were undecided on the next day’s vote in the House. Nathan had undertaken to use his powers of persuasion tonight to bring them round to the Whig point of view. He spent the evening charming the pair of them, and when he returned home, at half past one in the morning, he knew he had at least one vote in his pocket. Perhaps two. Time would tell.

The house was silent and dark. Jed let him in and handed him a candle to see his way up the dark stairs. Nathan trudged upstairs wearily, opening and closing his bedchamber door with care, cupping his hand around the candle to protect the fragile flame. It glowed dimly in the cavern of his spacious chamber.

He made his way to the dressing room and put his candle down on the armoire, bending down to remove his evening slippers. And then he saw it. A folded paper on the floor, all but hidden beneath the armoire. Unthinkingly, he reached for it, lifting it up to the light to examine it.

His mind had absorbed the first few lines before he realised that this was a private letter; the same letter, he realised, that Fellowes had been reading earlier. But by then he was so intrigued that he read to the end, despite a gnawing sense of guilt at committing so gross an invasion of privacy.

Nathan sank into his armchair and read the letter over and over, his mind teeming with questions. Who was H, and why was he—or she—worried about Fellowes? What evidence was Fellowes looking for? And of what?

Something about the letter sounded clandestine. Was Fellowes engaged in some sort of scheme with this H? Something illicit? Possibly even illegal? The letter implied Fellowes was putting himself in danger. It bothered Nathan.

And intrigued him.

No wonder his instincts had taken notice of the man. Interest stirred in him—interest, and a growing sense of justification.

A sensible man would summon Fellowes before him first thing in the morning and ask for an explanation. It would be unwise to allow a man who seemed to have some sort of secret agenda to remain in his house without seeking an explanation. But after an hour of mulling it over, he knew that he wasn’t going to do as he ought.

Fellowes had already been interesting. Now he was fascinating. He was an enigma; a puzzle. And Nathan wanted to delve into that puzzle. To solve it. He wanted to see how Fellowes’ story was going to play out, to insinuate himself into its very pages and become a player himself.

And so it was that as the clock struck two, Nathan placed the letter back where he had found it, on the dressing room floor, and went to bed.

And the next morning, when he walked into the dressing room for his morning shave, Fellowes was standing, waiting next to the basin of steaming scented water, the blade in his hand.

The letter was gone.

Once Harland was dressed, Georgy raced up to her room to put Harry’s letter away. Thank god she’d found it before Harland had. Not that it gave anything away, but it
was
rather suspicious sounding. Stupid of her to read it in his rooms like that—she’d nearly died when he’d strode in last night and caught her lounging in his chair. Even more stupid to drop the letter.

She scanned its contents one more time before putting it away. Harry had never been a great letter writer and they had agreed that he should keep his notes brief, and direct them via Max, in case they should fall into the wrong hands.

Not that there was anything to report anyway. Harry had been making his way through the hamlets of Yorkshire for weeks now and his single vague reference to a new “titbit” of information wasn’t very heartening. More and more, she was convinced it was down to her to find something at Dunsmore Manor. There was no question of her reconsidering and going home now.

Three more days. In three days, they would travel to Bedfordshire and the opportunity she had been working toward all these weeks would finally present itself.

19 December 1810

The night before they were due to leave for Dunsmore Manor, Georgy felt like a limp rag.

She had spent all day pressing clothes, packing valises and hatboxes and making travel arrangements. It had been a long, tiring day and it was not yet over. At almost nine o’clock in the evening, Harland was still in his bath. He was going out with his friend Viscount Maybury and she was waiting to dress him. Once he had left, she still had to tidy the dressing room and finish the packing before she could retire.

She yawned, perching on the edge of Harland’s bed so as not to crease the satin bedspread.

God only knew where the two men intended to go—Maybury had a shocking reputation—but wherever it was, Harland would be home very late.

Nevertheless, Georgy was under strict instructions to wake him at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. He would be able to sleep in his carriage on the way to Bedfordshire, of course. His carriage was upholstered in luxurious velvet and tomorrow morning it would be stuffed with cushions, travelling rugs and hot bricks for his feet. Unlike the travelling coach that Georgy would be sharing with Harland’s luggage, which would be quite devoid of such comforts.

It had been a relief to be hard at work today. She had needed work to take her mind off the worry of having to convince a whole new set of people that she was a male servant. She had become comfortable in Harland’s London townhouse and she dreaded the upheaval and the real possibility of discovery that changing households threatened. What if she had to share a room with another servant at Dunsmore House? And then there was the fact that she would be right under Dunsmore’s nose.

Harland was singing to himself in the bath. He did that sometimes when she left the room. She closed her eyes, giving in to her weariness for a moment while his pleasant baritone nudged at her consciousness. Lord, but it would be lovely to fall backwards onto the thick mattress behind her and just sleep.

A rush of water heralded that Harland was at last rising from his bath. She pictured him naked, pale skin glowing in the candlelight, water streaming from his body, droplets clinging to the hair on his chest and groin and long thighs. She hastily suppressed the image and stood up, smoothing down her breeches. The door between the bedchamber and the dressing room was open and it was so silent she could hear everything. The swish of the bath sheet as he shook it out to dry himself with. The pad of his bare feet as he walked. The shush of a drawer.

“Fellowes? Where are my stockings?”

She walked to the dressing room, halting in the doorway. He was already wearing drawers and a shirt that was translucent where it clung to his body. His damp hair tumbled over his pale brow, as darkly sleek as an otter’s pelt. Georgy ignored the familiar pang of desire. “I shall fetch them, my lord,” she murmured.

She located stockings and handed them to him, immediately turning away again to fetch his breeches and waistcoat, refusing to allow herself to watch him smooth the silk over his firmly muscled calves.

They accomplished his toilette in silence. She was holding his jewel case open and he was poring over the rings when there was a light knock at the door. It was Tom, announcing that Viscount Maybury’s carriage had arrived and was waiting. Harland picked out a sapphire ring and pin. He pushed the ring onto his long index finger and handed Georgy the pin. She leaned forward and fastened it deftly in the folds of his cravat.

He didn’t even check his appearance in the glass. Just walked to the door.

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Fellowes,” he said as he strode out.

“Very good, my lord.”

Once he’d gone, she walked into the dressing room and surveyed it wearily. Her shoulders were tight and knotted, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. She looked at the deep-filled bath longingly. It would be lovely to have a bath, a proper bath, rather than the two inches of water servants were allowed. She dipped her hand in the water.

It was surprisingly warm.

The thought of just getting into the bath that Harland himself had so recently vacated assaulted her.
Dared she?
She bit her lip, weighing the risks. Harland was gone—or soon would be. Jed and Tom would only come for the bathwater when she rang for them and she often didn’t do so until long after Harland left for the evening. No one else would intrude upon her. Nevertheless, it felt dangerous.

And tempting.

After worrying her lip for a half a minute, she decided to go and see if Harland had gone yet. She took the servants’ stairs to the kitchen and found Tom sitting at the table, eating bread and cheese and drinking a mug of ale.

“Not eating again!” Georgy exclaimed in mock disgust. Tom grinned.

“Got to keep me strength up, George lad,” he said. “I’m hoping to slip out to see Polly later.”

Georgy chuckled and tried to look knowing.

“You got a kettle of hot, Mrs. Sims?” she called to the cook, who was sitting beside the fire, knitting.

“Aye,” she said in her flat Lancashire accent. “Mary, fetch that kettle for Mr. Fellowes and put a new one on for my tea.”

While Mary levered herself up to fetch the kettle, Georgy looked at Tom again. “Harland not taking his own carriage tonight?” she asked casually.

“No. That friend of his came for him—Maybury. Thick as thieves, they are.”

“They’re gone already?”

“They are. Maybury didn’t even shift from his carriage, he was that keen to be off. They’ll be getting themselves some opera dancers now.” Tom laughed in a comradely way, bracketing himself with Harland and Maybury.

Mary approached with the kettle. Georgy took it and fairly tripped back up the stairs. She let herself back into Harland’s bedchamber, kicking the door closed behind her. She was grinning as she skipped into the dressing room. A bath! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper bath. She poured the whole kettle of water in and leaned over to feel the rising steam on her face, inhaling the scent of cloves and cinnamon, the spicy evocative scent of her master.

With a pleasurable sigh, she began to unbutton her waistcoat.

Even with the curtains closed, Harland sensed that Ross’s carriage was not going in the right direction.

“This isn’t the way to Brookes,” he said.

Ross looked guilty. “No,” he conceded. “It’s the way to Lady Norman’s. She’s having a musicale tonight.”

Nathan stared at Ross as though he’d grown an extra head. Which, come to think of it, would be rather less surprising than the words that had just emerged from his mouth.

“A musicale?
Lady Norman’s
musicale?” He shook his head. “Have you lost your senses? When we spoke yesterday we agreed we were going to Brookes then Belle Orton’s!”

Ross flushed. “I know. But today I promised I’d be at Lady Norman’s this evening. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

“Promised? Promised who?”

Ross’s flush deepened. “Charlie Howard and his sister.”

Nathan laughed, a bark of sheer surprise. “Ross, old boy, do you fancy Charlie Howard’s sister?”

“Don’t be absurd! I only just met her this afternoon.” The words sounded certain enough, but Ross was squirming with discomfort and Nathan knew he’d hit upon the truth. “When Miss Howard mentioned they’d be at the musicale tonight, I said I’d be there—a stupid impulse, but really I ought to go. After all, Miss Howard did particularly mention she would be singing.”

Nathan laughed again, not bothering to hide his astonishment. “Good lord, you
do
fancy her!” He stared at his friend, fascinated and appalled all at once. He’d thought Ross might be a lifelong bachelor. “Come on, old boy,” he said encouragingly. “Surely you’re not going to let me down? We’re off to what promises to be a very staid house party tomorrow—can’t I persuade you to join me in one last night of debauchery in town? Think of the brandy and cards and girls you’ll miss out on while you’re drinking lemonade and listening to debutantes warbling.”

To his bewilderment, Ross didn’t even seem tempted. He shook his head firmly. “The thing is, I did
say
to Miss Howard that I would certainly be there this evening and so…” He trailed off and cleared his throat.

“I see,” Nathan murmured into the silence. Stupid to feel abandoned. “Do I take it you’re contemplating matrimony?”

Ross flushed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just met the girl. As to tonight, I
was
rather hoping you would come with me. After all, I’ve attended dozens of these sorts of things with you when you’ve asked.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Ross scowled. “Don’t be a cur! What about all those tiresome nights at Almacks when your sister came out and you made me dance with her and her spotty friend? Don’t they count for a thing?”

“Now, now,” Nathan chided. “Of course they count for a great deal, but I think you’re forgetting that this is Lady
Norman
’s musicale.”

When Ross looked perplexed, Nathan sighed.

“Lady Norman, whose advances I rejected a year or two ago?”

A tiny flicker of comprehension. “Oh, wait a minute, that rings a bell. Was it in a music-room or something?”

“A library,” Nathan corrected. “She has detested me ever since. There is simply no question of my turning up at her musicale.”

“No,” Ross agreed glumly.

“Do I take it, then, that you intend to proceed to this entertainment alone?” Nathan asked. “The offer of a night of debauchery remains open…”

Ross shook his head resolutely. “No. I really ought to go. Quite indefensible to disappoint a lady and all that.”

“All right, but the musicale will be over in a few hours,” Nathan pointed out. “You could join me after.”

Ross looked uncomfortable. “Best not, old chap,” he muttered. “I’m taking Charlie and Miss Howard to Dunsmore’s in my carriage tomorrow and I’ve promised an early start. Wouldn’t do to turn up stinking of brandy, would it?”

Nathan felt a stab of something rather like sadness. He’d thought that the only thing Ross was wedded to was his disreputable life. Other things might change but Ross never did.

Until now.

“I see,” he said. “Well, since you’re set upon being dull and respectable, would you be kind enough to turn your carriage around and take me home first? There’s a good chap.”

Ross frowned. “You’re not going home to mope, are you?”

“No. I merely want my own carriage.”

“Oh, but I can take you to Brookes, Nath. It’s the least I can do.”

“Nonsense, it will take you quite out of your way and make you late. Besides…” He stretched out his hand and frowned at the sapphire ring on his index finger. “I want to change this ring. I chose it hastily—your fault, I might add, for being on time—and it’s making me bilious. It clashes horribly with my waistcoat.” He paused, adopting a thoughtful expression. “Or maybe I’ll change the waistcoat.”

Ross rolled his eyes, then rose to thump the ceiling with his cane and give the order.

“So, tell me about this Miss Howard,” Nathan invited once his friend had sat down again.

Ross paused. “She’s pretty, I suppose,” he said at last. “Chestnut-brown mane, big brown eyes. Seems to have a nice disposition too. Gentle, but with just that little bit of spirit.”

Nathan opened his eyes wide. “Good God, Ross, it must be love! You’ve just described a horse!”

Ross looked offended for a moment, then gave a reluctant laugh.

Nathan knew it was bad of him, but he kept up his teasing all the way back to the house, by which time Ross was beginning to look a little tense. Well, Nathan thought, Ross deserved it for letting him down this evening.

“I wish you a good evening with your Miss Howard.” Nathan said once the carriage had stopped. “I shall think of you as Belle Orton fleeces me at hazard.”

“You do that. And she won’t fleece you if you can keep your eyeballs off her bosom.”

The door opened and Nathan climbed out. “I shall see you at Dunsmore’s tomorrow. I look forward to meeting your Miss Howard then.”

“I look forward to introducing you to her, assuming you are going to be polite,” Ross replied, a note of warning in his voice.

Nathan smiled. “Of course I will, old boy. Have you ever known me to be rude to a respectable young lady?”

“No, and I’m pleased to hear you are not about to start. Good night.”

The carriage door closed and the coachman sprang the horses, bearing Ross off to an entertainment that was going to be so insipid that Miss Howard could not fail to shine in comparison.

Nathan stood for a moment looking after the carriage before he turned and strolled up the steps of his house. Maybe he wouldn’t go to Brookes or Belle Orton’s tonight. The idea of cards and brandy suddenly held little appeal. He thought of the pile of invitations on the desk in his bedchamber. Perhaps he’d look through them to see if there was anything else that took his fancy.

“A change of plan,” Nathan told the impassive footman who opened the door. He entered and walked to the stairs. “Have the carriage brought round.”

He walked slowly upstairs to his chamber, feeling discontented and oddly melancholy.

His bedchamber door was not quite closed. Precise in his habits, Nathan felt a tiny stab of annoyance when he touched the handle and the door swung silently open, the slight breeze of it extinguishing his candle. He frowned, putting the candle to one side as he entered.

The bedchamber was dark but there was a square of light at the opposite side of the large room from the open dressing room doorway. It gave out just enough light for him to see by, dimly. He walked forwards, making no sound on the thick carpet. He was close to the desk when a tiny movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He turned his head towards the open dressing room doorway.

And froze.

Fellowes stood facing the bathtub, his face in profile, his slim body side-on. He was in his stockinged feet and was unbuttoning his breeches. His waistcoat had already been discarded. The flickering candlelight made his bright hair gleam like old gold. As Nathan watched, Fellowes kicked off his breeches, and the shirt that had been tucked inside them suddenly fell loose, almost to his knees.