TuesdayNights (20 page)

Olivia wondered if Jeffers really was happy to turn over authority to someone else, or if he resented her for taking over his domain. Servants would always defer to the butler and follow his orders, but having a lady in the house meant a level of authority that commanded just a bit more respect.

“How many servants in the house?” she asked as she sat down in a nearby chair and removed a small pad and thin charcoal pencil from her reticule.

“Ten. I ... I apologize for not having introduced you to them when you arrived.”

Olivia cocked an eyebrow. “No apology required. How could you know, Jeffers? Name them, please,” she ordered as she prepared to write.

“Cook, housekeeper, two maids, two grooms, an occasional gardener, two footmen, a scullery maid, and myself,” he stated confidently.

Writing as fast as she could, Olivia considered the list and asked, “Do you serve as Mr. Cunningham’s valet?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Who serves dinner?” she wondered.

When Jeffers didn’t answer right away, Olivia looked up to find him perplexed. “Does Mr. Cunningham even eat dinner here?” she clarified, realizing that breakfast and luncheon were probably served from a sideboard in the dining room. If there is a dining room.

The butler sighed as he tried to control a bit of embarrassment. “My lady, this household is inhabited by two men who frequently dine at White’s and who are rarely in residence otherwise ...”

Two men? Perhaps Michael’s father lived here when he wasn’t in Sussex. Olivia tried to remember where she had heard of White’s and decided she would ask about it later. “Will there be a dinner ... or a supper served this evening?” she interrupted as she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Although the carriage had stopped at the coaching inn earlier that afternoon, she politely refused Michael’s offer of a luncheon and took just tea and biscuits.

I could have had a feast, she suddenly realized.

Jeffers gave a curt nod and turned to leave. “I will have Cook prepare something.”

Shaking her head, Olivia put a hand out to stop his exit. “Please do not have him make something for only me. I merely wondered if ... when dinner might be.”

Having hinted that she should command him to see to it there was a dinner served that evening, Jeffers tried a different approach. “The cook makes an evening meal for the staff every night. Shall I have him make one for you? I rather doubt Mr. Cunningham will be back from Sir Richard’s by dinner time.”

Olivia sighed. “Yes, thank you. I’ll take it in the ... parlor?” she guessed, not wanting to eat in a dining room all by herself.

“Very good. And what about tomorrow? Shall I have Cook make you and Mr. Cunningham a dinner?” he asked, his eyebrow cocked as if hinting she should say ‘yes’.

“Yes, that would be good. And who will serve dinner?” Olivia wondered.

“The footmen and one of the maids have serving experience. I shall see to it they are available for duty at dinner.”

“Eight o’clock?” Olivia queried, remembering that people in the city tended to eat later than those in the country.

“I shall see to it,” Jeffers repeated curtly. “And brandy and wine are served in the library at seven,” he added, wanting to be sure she knew about the gentlemen’s ritual of enjoying evening drinks before dinner, even if they didn’t eat at the house. “Should I send up a maid to help you dress?” he offered, his face coloring up a bit as he made the suggestion.

Olivia considered the offer but shook her head. “I won’t require one this evening, but thank you.”

After a short pause, Jeffers bit his lip. What has my master done to necessitate a marriage to this poor girl? he wondered. The man’s mother has been trying to get him to the Marriage Mart for years, and he suddenly shows up with a pretty bride. And an unhappy one, he considered.

Marriage of convenience, perhaps? Or marriage of necessity?

“Thank you, Jeffers,” she said by way of dismissal, not quite sure what she was supposed to say.

The butler bowed and hurried out of the room. Olivia finished unpacking and chose a gown for her private dinner. She glanced at a clock on the nearby dresser and decided she had much to do before she’d be ready for dinner, let alone drinks. Having only three appropriate gowns for an evening meal, it would not be difficult to get dressed, she considered. A quick look at her mahogany hair in the oval cheval glass caused her to grimace, and the slight bruising under her eyes made her look as tired as she felt.

Her hair still smelled of roses when she undid the tight bun and brushed it out. With no abigail to assist her, she rolled it into a simple chignon and pinned it in place. The servants had filled the copper tub in the adjoining bath with enough hot water and lemon soap to rinse away the odor of travel. Before long, she stepped into a simple periwinkle batiste gown. The cap-sleeved dress displayed the tops of her shoulders, but with buttons down one side under her arm, she was able to fasten them without the help of a maid. The color of the gown suited her pale skin and hair, and the bruising under her eyes was nearly gone by the time she pulled on long white gloves. Owning little in the way of jewelry, she had only a single strand of yellowed pearls to wear around her neck and small gold wires to thread through the piercings in her ears.

By the time she regarded her image in the cheval mirror at precisely seven o’clock, she felt revived and ready to face life in a London townhouse.

When Michael Cunningham returned from his brief meeting with Sir Richard, he slumped into the chair behind his desk and stared at the collection of pasteboard calling cards, letters and invitations that had piled up since he’d left for Sussex. Has it only been seven days? he wondered as he realized the date. A week ago, he was a confirmed bachelor.

And, now, he was a married man!

Am I really almost twenty-eight years old? he wondered for the tenth time that day as he pulled a letter out of the pile on the silver salver. The scent and handwriting on the outside were definitely his mother’s, he noticed with a bit of indifference. Opening it slowly, he read of her latest travels in Italy and of her promise to be back in London for the start of the Season. The final line made him smile. If you have kept your promise, and if it is the last thing I do before I die, I shall see you a married man, she had written as a postscript. Well, she could die happy now, he supposed.

Or not, once she discovered his bride was not a daughter of the
ton
.

Leaning back in his chair, Michael suddenly remembered his bride’s sister. Damn! he realized suddenly. I haven’t spoken to her since the wedding ceremony. What must she think of all this? he wondered, hoping she would not be too cross that had hadn’t included her in his plans to marry her sister.

I am a married man now, he considered. I am married to Olivia, he thought as his heart seemed to skip a beat.

Although it seemed apparent to him during their ride to London that Olivia Waterford wanted nothing to do with him, he had certainly harbored feelings for her since that day he’d met her in the inn yard in Shipley. Hair like silk, he thought as he recalled Tuesday night in her bed when his hand had touched it. And he remembered the golds and red that appeared in the mahogany strands of that silken hair when she was in the garden cutting the still-tiny flowers for the front hall of her father’s house. He found himself wondering if she would ever do the same for this place.

Groaning, he sat back in the chair and wondered if he should write to Eloisa. She was in residence when he married her sister. She had already told him that he no longer needed to provide protection. But he realized that she still deserved an explanation, a closure of sorts for their relationship.

Opening the inkwell, he thought a bit about what to write in the short missive. An apology, certainly. Beg for forgiveness, of course. Provide assurances that she could continue to live in the townhouse he had let for her until she was married. And all would be well.

He folded the crisp, white sheet of stationery, sealing it with a few drippings from the nearby candle followed by a press of his ‘MTC’ seal into the round puddle. That missive complete, he took the next letter off the pile. When he read the return address, he was surprised to see it was from his banker. Odd, he thought as he broke the wax seal and opened the paper. Cunningham, I do hope your trip to Horsham went as planned. Do let me know if any additional financing is required for this next venture with Sir Richard and Mr. Waterford. I would like the opportunity to spar with you at GJ’s. Would Tuesday at 3 in the afternoon be convenient for you? Regards, A. Huntington.

Michael furrowed his brows. Arthur knew damn well that Harold Waterford would fund the entire project when given the opportunity. So the note wasn’t really about financing the business deal, he considered.

Which meant it was all about Huntington wanting to take him on in an informal mill.

But why? Michael wondered briefly. They usually just sparred when they happened to be at Gentleman Jackson’s at the same time. They had never actually scheduled a match. Sparring was informal ...

Eloisa! Michael realized, remembering again the short conversation they’d had in Shipley. There was nothing in the note about Arthur courting Eloisa!

This is about Eloisa.

Since Arthur had already asked to court Eloisa, then their afternoon tea must have gone well. Very well, indeed, Michael realized happily. And if that was the case, then perhaps Huntington was ready to ask for her hand! Michael considered the missive. He was certain the banker still thought he had some kind of claim to Eloisa. Michael had mentioned looking after the supposed widow the day they were on their walk together. Perhaps Huntington hadn’t believed him that night at White’s, when he’d assured the man he had no claim on Eloisa.

The man wants to fight me!

And what better bait to fight over than a beautiful woman?

He told Huntington he planned to wed before his twenty-eighth birthday, but he hadn’t made his marriage public knowledge just yet. There was no notice in The Times. That meant Huntington might think he had a claim on Eloisa – that he planned to wed her to meet the deadline, even though he had assured the man he had no intention of doing so.

Well, if the man wanted to fight over Eloisa, then so be it. Because Michael knew he had nothing to lose.

Except, perhaps, a bare knuckle mill.

Deliberately
.

Michael took a sheet of crested parchment from his desk and dipped his quill, writing a quick note that accepted the invitation to spar and declined the offer of financing. Folding it with a satisfied grin on his face, Michael dripped some candle wax onto the edges of the paper and reached over to pick up his seal. He quirked his lips as he nearly picked up the stamp with an ornate ‘OWC’ carved into it.

He had ordered the seal for Olivia the week after his visit to Wiltshire, remembering his sister’s list of accessories he would need to arrange if he was truly going to marry Olivia Waterford. Exchanging the seal for his masculine ‘MTC’, Michael stamped the seal into the hardening wax.

The next letter he took from the salver had him sighing. The bright white parchment, folded just so and sealed with the Duke of Somerset crest, was from Elizabeth Statton. Sister, you have some explaining to do, he thought as he remembered the missive she had sent to Olivia, confirming that she had the governess position and to make arrangements for travel to Wiltshire. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. My dearest brother, In the event you did not do as we discussed during your last visit to Wiltshire, I have sent a letter of hire to Miss Olivia Waterford. It is my sincerest wish that by the time you read this, you did indeed do what we discussed and are married to her. And if you did not, and you are not married to her, then at least she will soon be my governess. I promise I shall say nothing to her of our agreement. Sincerely, Elizabeth.

The minx! Another rather uncharitable thought struck Michael as he read the letter, but he sat back and took a bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that he had done what he and his sister had discussed, and that Olivia was not going to be a governess.
At least, not my sister’s
, he amended when he remembered the conversation he’d had with George.
My new brother
, he thought proudly.

Michael was about to read the last note on the salver when he heard a staccato knock on the door. A glance at the clock showed it was nearly seven o’clock. “Come in,” he called out, opening an invitation to a ball at the Harvey’s.
Next Thursday night
, he read before he turned his attention to the door.

Edward Seward opened the door only wide enough to allow his head to pop through. “Ah, Jeffers said you were back.”

Michael smiled at the man who had made himself at home in his townhouse. “Indeed. I heard you have good news,” he answered jovially, remembering that Jeffers had said Edward wanted to speak with him. “About time for drinks in the library, wouldn’t you say?” Michael suggested as he stood up from the desk and stretched. “God, I ache,” he murmured as he made his way around the edge of the desk. The constant jostle of the coach had his body complaining, and if he was uncomfortable, he suddenly found himself wondering how Olivia was faring.

“Someone’s been missing his workouts at Gentleman Jack’s,” Edward teased as he opened the door completely so that Michael could join him in the hall. Taller and certainly more classically handsome than Michael, Edward wore only a shirt, breeches, and a pair of Hessian’s that were either new or newly polished. His dark blonde hair was cropped short but left tousled on top while long sideburns made his long oval face seem even longer. “Penelope gave birth to a boy yesterday,” he said suddenly. “Arthur has his heir.”

Michael regarded Edward with a nod. “Congratulations! You’re an uncle,” he said with a huge grin. “And, you’re no longer in line for the Eversham earldom. You must be so proud,” he teased, wondering if Edward really was as relieved as he seemed at his lowered status in the order of inheritance.