True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (17 page)

Now she heard, first hand, all his
wickedest secrets and he held very little back to spare her
blushes.

Deverell had an aversion, it seemed,
to working in daylight. He found other things requiring his
attention until dusk settled over the sky. Then he called for her,
and, closeted away with him every evening, the curtains drawn, she
became his confidant, his confessional.

Also, much to her despair, she sensed
she had become his amusement too. Subject to his wicked teasing,
she could do nothing but hold her chin up and bear it, thinking all
the while of that handsome fee he promised to pay her.

During the day she tried to make
herself useful around the house. Mrs. Blewett, surprised at first
to find a willing helpmate, agreed to let her assist with the
cooking and was vastly amused when Olivia readily conceded, "I have
never been very good at it, just enthusiastic."

"Didn't your mama teach you,
then?"

"No. She died when I was eight. We had
a girl from the charity school a few days a week, but she wasn't
terribly friendly and had no time for me. I was instructed to stay
away from the kitchen when she was there. At other times, papa had
to make do with my efforts."

The cook turned out to be a patient
tutor and was pleased to show Olivia a few skills with pastry and
sauces.

When Deverell came in from his ride
one morning and found the two women laughing together, Olivia
covered in flour, he demanded to know what they were up to— as if
they might be plotting to put poison in his pie. Apparently he
wasn't accustomed to much female jollity in his house.

"Mrs. Blewett is teaching me to make
pate feuilletage," Olivia said proudly.

He eyed her messy pinafore. "Sounds
painful."

"Puff pastry, as decent folk call it,"
the cook explained.

"And hopefully it won't be painful to
eat," Olivia added. She was very warm from the heat of the kitchen
and knew her face was probably an unappealing mess of scarlet
blotches and perspiration, but Deverell was staring at her in an
odd way.

"Where is it then?" he
demanded.

"It's baking. It's not ready yet." She
hastily moved in front of the oven, hands behind her
back.

"Hmm." His gaze narrowed. "I can't
wait to sample your delights, Mrs. Monday."

"Well, you'll have to wait, won't
you?" Mrs. Blewett exclaimed, chuckling. "Unless you want to burn
that cheeky mouth of yours."

He looked affronted. "Mrs. B, it's not
like you to be so insubordinate. I hope my new secretary isn't
rubbing off on you. She does have an uncommonly sharp tongue, as I
know already to my cost. I fear she will be a bad influence on my
staff."

Both women stayed silent. Olivia was
not sure if he meant it, or if he was jesting again. She had yet to
learn all the subtleties of his expression.

He turned to leave the kitchen, but
fired one last arrow over his shoulder, "And Mrs. Monday, be sure
to wash that flour off your face before you come to me later, or I
shall be tempted to deal with you as a cat does with a
kitten."

The cook giggled at that, but Olivia
did not. She was left to picture him licking her face and it was
all too clear a vision in her imagination. Knowing his improper
habits, it was also entirely too possible.

Unfortunately the pastry did not rise
at all as it should have done. Even Mrs. Blewett was dumbfounded.
They put it out for the birds and when Deverell later asked for it,
Olivia explained that he would have to wait a little longer
still.

"My first attempt was... lacking
somewhat," she muttered, "but I shall persevere."

"I'm glad to hear you don't give up,
Mrs. Monday."

"Certainly not. Nothing is ever too
hopeless."

He gave her another of those strange
looks and she raised a nervous hand to her hair, just to be sure it
was every bit as tidy as it should be.

* * * *

One evening, while they worked late
into the night, the butler appeared with a large tray of
supper.

"Ah, splendid, Sims. Thank you."
Deverell took the tray and set it down on the ottoman. "I thought
we might enjoy a late repast in the manner of a casual picnic
tonight, Mrs. Monday. Food helps the brain cells, so I'm
told."

She looked doubtfully at the
overloaded tray, spectacles clasped in one hand.

"Don't be timid," he added, once Sims
had left the room, "Dig in at the trough. I shall. In my world,
Mrs. Monday, if you don't eat when the opportunity arises you might
be the one that gets eaten."

It would have been unthinkable in
Chiswick. Occasionally she'd sat up late to help her father with
work, or to assist her last husband with a listening ear when he
composed a particularly important sermon, but never had she sat on
the floor and eaten a picnic by the fire. With a man who seemed to
think— and celebrate the fact— that he'd been raised by farmyard
beasts.

She must not be misled by the easy
informality with which Mr. Deverell treated her. He had hired her
for one purpose only and liking him at all was not
necessary.

"Try this," he said, cutting her a
large slice of pie and passing it to her with his own fingers, as
if it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to do.
"Mrs. Blewett makes an excellent pork pie. I would wager you've
never tasted anything like it. Ah, but I forgot - you don't wager."
He held it out for her lips, but Olivia carefully took the slice in
her own hand before she tried a timid bite. "Well?" he demanded
impatiently, eyes gleaming in the firelight, jaw thrust forward as
if daring her to criticize his cook's endeavors.

I wish he would tie his
cravat
, she thought anxiously. It hung
loose tonight and his waistcoat had a few buttons undone. Just a
few. She hadn't counted how many.

Three. Three were undone,
actually.

It was a black silk waistcoat
decorated with raised gold thread. Not too fancy a pattern, but
very rich and quite beautiful when one saw it at close range. He
wore it with casual disregard, however, treating it the same as he
did the simpler, stained and worn corduroy waistcoat in which she
often saw him.

"Well?" he repeated. "How is
it?"

"Good," she replied, finally
remembering the pie.

"
Good
?" He sat back, forearms resting
on his parted knees, long fingers hooked together between them.
"That's it? That's the best you can do?"

"I...I like it."

"Good lord, don't overdo it! The
superlatives are killing me."

"It's very well seasoned," she added,
hiding a chuckle at his frustration.

"It's the best pork pie you've ever
tasted. Say it. I demand that you say it!" From the look on his
face anyone would think no one had ever failed to be intimidated by
him before.

"Well...I would hesitate to make such
a sweeping statement. I've tasted many good—"

"You're remarkably hard to please,
woman," he exclaimed gruffly.

"I did say it was nice."

"Nice?
Nice
?" He snorted. "Is that what
passes for praise in Chiswick?"

"Mr. Deverell, it is possible to be
pleased with something and not feel the need to leap up and down,
shouting it from the rooftops. I told you, I like it."

"I suppose I must be
satisfied with that then." A lock of dark hair fell over his brow,
making him look somewhat like a crestfallen puppy, much to her
further amusement. How easily he changed from fierce, surly beast
to a naughty boy at whom one
should
be cross. As he swept that stray wave of hair
back with the fingers of one hand she felt a shiver run down her
spine. It was almost as if he had stroked her with that impatient
hand.

She took another bite and
stared into the fire, glumly thinking of what William Monday would
have to say about all this. His advice was silent this evening and
Deverell's presence dominated her thoughts. Even when they
weren't
in the same
room. When they were, it was like being intoxicated— as she was
once when she drank too much sherry before Sunday luncheon and then
couldn't stop giggling at the Brussel sprouts.

Olivia could well imagine
how young Deverell had swept through the halls of his infamous club
as an ambitious, vital, mysteriously handsome figure, and secured
the attention of Lady Charlotte Rothsey. As well as many other
women, and men too.
He
could not be ignored or pushed away into a corner. If he took
the last rout cake, no one would dare reprimand him.

"I can assure you it's the best pork
pie in the county," he grumbled. "Mrs. Blewett has won awards at
the county fair. I'm surprised she has not told you, but perhaps
you spend your time in the kitchen prying for information about
me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I wondered what could possess you to
spend so much time in my kitchen, when it's not part of your duties
here. But Sims told me he caught you on the very first day, prying
for information about me. You were, weren't you? And that's why you
spend your time with Mrs. B, listening to gossip."

She wiped her fingers on a napkin and
watched him pour two glasses of wine. "I was making conversation
with Mrs. Blewett on the first morning, and since then I've been
trying to help her, although I'm afraid I've been more hindrance
than anything. And I'm not interested in gossip."

"Of course you are. You're a woman.
But if you want to know something, ask me in future."

When he passed her one of the very
full glasses, she mumbled, "I really shouldn't ...this late at
night." Not that she had any idea what the time was. That fact was
almost as unsettling as his proximity.

"But you will. I insist."

"You cannot insist that a person drink
wine."

"Yes I can. My rules, remember? And
I'm paying you well to be an obedient subject on my island." He
frowned. "Don't fret. I don't plan to get you inebriated and
senseless. You need a steady hand to write."

With a deep sigh she took the glass.
"While we are on the subject of my role here, sir, I would
appreciate it greatly if you could assure your staff that I was
engaged as your secretary only. There seems to be a general
assumption that I am here to serve you in some other capacity, and
they won't listen to me."

"Some other ...capacity?" His eyes
twinkled at her.

"I believe you know what I mean,
sir."

He muttered gruffly, "Well, that's
your fault. And Chalke's. If he had sent me someone closer to what
I expected there wouldn't be any misunderstanding about your
purpose here. No one would suspect us of anything like that, if you
were different."

"What precisely about me would lead
anyone to think I could be your ...your..."

"Mistress?"

She took a hasty sip of wine. "I would
imagine I'm the last woman in the world that could be confused with
that."

"Hmm. On the surface, you don't look
like my usual company, I'll grant you that." He tilted his head,
considering her through narrowed eyes. "There is something impish
about you though."

"
Impish
?" A little wine spilled over
the rim of her glass and wet her fingers.

"Naughty. Something you're trying to
hide."

She huffed. "I am exactly what you
see. What could I have to hide?"

"I know not, Mrs. Monday." A slow
smile made him intolerably handsome suddenly. "But I will find out.
I'm very good at uncovering ladies’ secrets."

Oh, she had no doubt of that. "You
don't know an Inspector O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police
by chance, do you?" she asked wryly.

"No. Why?"

She shook her head.

"Now try another bite of pie with some
pickle," he exclaimed, swiftly diverting the subject. "Perhaps you
found it too dry before." He was already cutting another slice for
her. "And you look hungry."

"Mr. Deverell, no one has ever been
quite so solicitous of my appetite."

"Damn shame. They should have been.
Perhaps you'd have a bit more bloom to your cheeks."

Had he just moved even closer to her
across the carpet? Olivia glanced sideways toward the sanctity of
the chair and little writing table, which were several feet from
where she now knelt. Her skin prickled with tension, as if it
expected to feel his scandalous touch. "Shouldn't we get on with
the work, Mr. Deverell?"

"Plenty of time for that. A man's got
to eat, keep his strength up. Woman too."

The way he said the word "woman" was
quite fierce— like a pinch or a bite.

"Give me your spectacles," he demanded
suddenly.

"Why?"

He held out his hand, palm up. "Do not
question your employer, madam."