Winter's Heat: A Nemesis Unlimited Holiday Novella (3 page)

Chapter Three

The carriages started arriving late the next morning. Ada had been up for hours, even before the six o’clock summons, lying in her narrow bed in a cramped attic room she shared with the two other temporary maids. By rights, she ought to have fallen into a dead sleep last night. It’d been months since she’d acted as a housemaid, and working as a clerk in a mercer’s shop was far less taxing.

But after the servants had finished their tea and evening duties, she’d tossed in her bed like a stirred coal. So much so that one of her roommates had thrown a pillow at her and threatened to tie her to the bed if she didn’t settle. For the rest of the night, Ada had drowsed, trying to get as much rest as she knew she’d need. Yet it was almost impossible, with her thoughts tumbling. She couldn’t stop mulling over the terrible Larkfields using children’s forced labor to pay for their
esteemed
lifestyle in London. Of the great responsibility entrusted to her by Nemesis. And, most of all, of Michael.

They hadn’t spoken for the rest of the previous day, but she never lost her awareness of him. He looked too cursed handsome and elegant in his livery. Somehow, he lent the blue and silver ensemble a dangerous masculinity.

She’d been careful not to look or talk to him when the servants had sat down to their meals, but the other maids and lower female servants were more free, asking him questions, flirting. It was a wonder she’d been able to eat at all, with her jaw locked tight in unwanted jealousy. It riled her, that possessiveness. She shouldn’t feel anything for him.

Why did the Lord the heavens have to bless him with such a velvety voice? It was a luscious torture.

He left you, thick-brain
, she’d reminded herself.
Said all sorts of lovely things about how special you were and kissed you until you melted like candle wax. And then he disappeared without a word for six months. So keep your skirts below your knees.

Dusting in one of the parlors, she reminded herself again that she was here for Nemesis, and Nemesis only. They had found her the job at the mercer’s shop on Westbourne Grove in Notting Hill—a shop whose owners had themselves turned to the secret group for help from thugs demanding protection money. So when Simon Addison-Shawe had asked her to assist on the mission, the shop owners were willing to let her take a brief leave of absence.

It felt good to her—felt right—to be here, doing this. Terrifying, but right.

A maid poked her head into the parlor. “The train from London’s just arrived,” she said, “and the carriages have gone out to retrieve the guests.”

“Who are they?” Ada asked.

“Mr. and Mrs. Herbert and their children, Colonel Braithwaite and his mother, Lady Paget and her daughters. And Lord and Lady Larkfield.”

Ada’s heart jumped up into her throat.

“Hurry and tidy up,” the maid said. “Mr. Keene says the master wants us all out to greet them.”

Ada put her cleaning supplies away. She then climbed the many narrow servants’ stairs to neaten up in preparation. A similar scene was likely being played out in the male servants’ quarters, which were over the stables. It would invite too much potential for impropriety if the male servants were housed beneath the same roof as the females.

Of course, a female servant might be able to meet a male halfway, if she so wanted. Which Ada didn’t. Not in the slightest.

But yesterday in the stillroom, he’d said that he had come straight from a mission just to see her again. She’d be a liar if she said that hadn’t made her stomach clench with exhilaration. Yet the pain of his leaving still echoed within her. A handful of explanations couldn’t take that away.

She and the other maids quickly went downstairs and silently lined up outside in two rows flanking the front door. The senior staff stood at the head of the lines, while Ada and the other lower servants were at the bottom. She caught a quick glimpse of Michael with the rest of the footmen. He wore the required impassive expression. They weren’t there to actually offer their greetings to the guests, just to display Lord Cowan’s wealth. A set of antique Chinese vases could’ve served the same purpose.

The first rattle of carriage wheels sounded on the gravel. Ada counted seven coaches in all, driven by liveried grooms, with footmen standing on the running boards. Luggage was heaped atop each carriage.

When the first vehicle came to a stop, Lord and Lady Cowan and their children came out of the house. They were ordinary in everything but clothing, none of which Ada would be able to afford with a full year’s salary. The Cowans were all smiles as the first of their guests were helped from the carriage by footmen.

Ada knew better than to ask who was who, but she burned with curiosity. Would the Larkfields be bent and crooked like pantomime villains, wearing greedy, shifty expressions? Likely not. The upper classes had their own rules, and seldom showed their emotions in public.

The first guests were a middle-aged woman and her two daughters, all in half mourning. They must be the Pagets. Lord and Lady Cowan greeted them heartily and welcomed them into their home. More guests followed. A heavily bearded man, with military bearing, and an elderly lady had to be Colonel Braithwaite and his mother. Another carriage with a couple and their assortment of children.

As everyone exited their carriages, their luggage was taken down by footmen, including Michael. Two coaches ejected a collection of men and women in plain but decently made clothing. The maids, valets, and nurses for the guests and their children.

The final coach pulled to a stop in front of the house and Michael was immediately there to open the door and hand down the people inside. Only two guests had yet to appear: Lord and Lady Larkfield.

A woman’s gloved hand took hold of Michael’s offered palm, then the woman herself glided down. Lady Larkfield appeared to be somewhere in her middle forties, her ash-blond hair fashionably arranged beneath an expensive hat. Her garments were naturally exquisite, and she wore them with the same cool elegance as her expression. Not a sign of any wrongdoing on her genteel face.

Lord Larkfield refused the offer of assistance out of the carriage. He seemed a decade older than his wife, his dark hair and mustache tastefully peppered with gray. His suit and traveling coat were tailored perfectly. Like his spouse, he seemed to exist in another world altogether—one where privilege sheltered him from the rough and ugly side of life.

They were like any aristocratic couple, the likes of which Ada had seen many times in her years of service. But she hated them. Knowing what she knew about their involvement with children’s forced labor, it was impossible to be neutral.

But Lord Cowan seemed delighted by their arrival. He rushed forward, arms open.

“Jerome! My dearest cousin! His lady wife! May I call you cousin, too?”

The embrace was returned with less enthusiasm. “Of course you may, Sinclair,” Lady Larkfield murmured.

Lady Cowan also stepped forward and offered a hand to shake. “I’m so pleased to meet you, at last.”

“It
has
been an age, hasn’t it?” Lord Larkfield drawled. He eyed Covington Hall. “The pile of stones looks much the same.”

“We’ve modernized it since I inherited the title,” Lord Cowan answered. “But I hope you’ll be as happy here as when we were children, getting into all sorts of scrapes and driving our nurse mad.” He chuckled, and Lord Larkfield joined him brittlely.

His laugh abruptly died as he saw Michael and another footman unloading his luggage from the top of the carriage. “Careful! If anything gets damaged, I’ll have your hides!” He raised his ivory-tipped cane as if to strike the footmen. He looked as though he’d make good on that threat, too, his polished face suddenly twisting in anger. His well-tailored clothes seemed to hide a stocky but strong body—a blow from him wouldn’t be a simple tap.

“Jerome,” Lord Cowan said, shocked. “Threatening my servants is entirely unnecessary.”

His cousin lowered his cane and appeared only slightly chastened. “Of course. But I want everything taken directly up to our rooms.”

“Naturally,” Lord Cowan answered, since Michael and the other footman weren’t allowed to speak.

“Tell your housekeeper and butler that we’ll need someone to maid and valet for us,” Lady Larkfield added.

Ada and Michael exchanged a glance. The Larkfields hadn’t brought their own personal servants. Very strange. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for the gentry to travel without their valets or maids, but with a couple clearly as fashionable as the Larkfields, trusting their clothing and overall care to strangers was odd. It also meant that the best source of inside information about the couple was left behind in London. No gossip to be exchanged in the servants’ hall. They were blank slates. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Hastily, plans were made to find servants to attend the Larkfields.

Lady Larkfield shuddered in her mink-trimmed coat. “It’s beastly out here. We’ll go up to our rooms now.”

If Lord Cowan was disappointed by the cool reception he received from his cousin and cousin’s wife, he was too well-bred to show it. Instead, he waved them inside. But Lord Larkfield kept his eye on his baggage as it was taken down from the carriage and carried inside by Michael and several other footmen.

Once the master and the guests were gone, Mr. Keene announced, “Everyone, back to your stations. This may be the holiday season, but our work is just beginning.”

The servants broke apart in clusters, murmuring quietly amongst themselves about the guests. Instead of joining in the chatter, Ada took advantage of the chaos of settling the visitors. Trunks and valises were being toted all over the house, and the guests’ servants were equally busy watching over everything.

Ada slipped toward the servants’ stairs, and took them to the second story, where she knew the Larkfields would be staying. She eased out into the hallway. Fortunately, there was too much activity for anyone to pay her much notice. She caught sight of Michael, carrying a trunk into the Larkfields’ room. He spotted her, and with a silent tip of his head, urged her closer.

She pulled a cloth from a pocket in her apron and dusted several knickknacks, making her way down the hall. At last, she reached the Larkfields’ room and peered inside.

Lady Larkfield had draped herself on a settee, while her husband hovered around the footmen setting down the baggage. The moment everything was put down, Lord Larkfield ordered the servants out of the room.

Michael stepped outside, but he lingered close, just beside Ada. It was the nearest they’d stood to one another since yesterday.

One of the footmen lingered in the Larkfields’ room. “I’m to be your valet during your stay, sir. We’re arranging for a maid for your wife right now. Shall I begin unpacking your bags?”

Lady Larkfield sat bolt upright. “Don’t touch them.”

The footman eyed the substantial pile of luggage. “Are you certain, ma’am?”

“We’ll take care of it ourselves,” Lord Larkfield snapped. “Get out. Don’t come back until it’s time to dress for dinner.”

The footman backed from the room. As soon as he did, Lord Larkfield shut and locked his door. The footman glanced at Michael and Ada with a baffled expression, then continued down the hall.

Ada and Michael moved as if to follow the footman, but walked slowly. “Sweet as barley candy, those two,” she muttered.

“Nothing would please me more than to kick that door in and plow my fist into that toff’s face,” Michael growled.

“Only if I get to slap that harpy.” Tension knotted through her. Only part of that was due to the Larkfields’ arrival. The other reason walked right beside her.

“Have to teach you how to throw a punch or an elbow,” he answered. “More effective than a slap.”

“That’s a tryst I’ll be happy to make.”

He flashed a quick smile at her, the brilliant gleam that always turned her pulse to the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. Maybe he thought he was calming her, but all it did was make her feel tight as a fiddle’s string.

“It’s a damned shame,” he said, “but we can’t beat the Larkfields to mash. It’s not going to help us punish those bastards. Gathering intelligence will.”

She made sure to keep her focus on the mission, and not his smile. “It’s odd they didn’t bring their own servants.”

“Maybe they don’t trust them.”

“But if you can’t trust your own valet and lady’s maid,” she pressed, “who can you trust?”

“Nobody,” he answered, “when you’re hushing up evidence of a crime. And unpacking their own bags…” He shook his head. “You’d sooner see Mrs. Byrd singing and dancing atop a piano.”

The image was so absurd, Ada almost laughed. “Something’s in the luggage, something they don’t want anyone to see or touch.”

“The room’s got to be searched,” he said. “The way you and I did on our last job together.” They stopped here at the top of the servants’ stairs.

“How?” she asked. “Unlike the last time, I’m not assigned to clean their room to search for evidence, and footmen don’t just go wandering the hallways.”

“We figure something out.”

“But—”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “It’ll be a challenge. But if anyone can figure it out, it’ll be you and me.” He touched the tip of his finger to the underside of her chin. They both froze at the contact. He’d touched her like that before, and memories assailed her. Of whispered words in corridors. How they’d planned their days around spying on their intended target. And talk of … other things. Of the excitement she used to feel, knowing she’d see him. The thrilling pleasure in realizing he shared that excitement.

A long time had passed since then, but the sensation still made her ache. And wonder what to do. Touch him as she used to do, tracing the long angles of his face? Push him away?

Michael, too, seemed stunned and uncertain. His gaze lingered on hers. Finally, he dropped his finger. Took a step back. Then slipped away, disappearing down the stairs.

Ada knew she couldn’t remain at the top of the stairway. She climbed the steps to the third floor, though she wished she could savor his touch. Through the rest of the day, the feel of his skin against hers continued to echo through her, like a glimmering ray of heat.