June 8, 1825
Dear Laura and Sterling,
Please forgive me for not writing sooner, but I've been too busy basking in the tender affections of my husband and stepdaughter. They are such a joy to me that I find it difficult to tear myself away from their company to perform even the simplest task!
I'm well aware that you had reservations about this marriage, but I want to assure that I have gained not only an adoring husband, but a loving daughter as well. Please don't suffer a single moment's remorse or regret on my account. I could not bear it if you did!
I promise to write more soon. Until then, picture me surrounded by the convivial bliss that only a joyous union between man, woman, and child can bring.
Ever your adoring,
Lottie
P.S. Could you please send me another yellow parasol? I seem to have sat on mine and broken all of its spokes.
June 10, 1825
Oh, my dearest Harriet,
Forgive my cramped and crooked handwriting, but I am penning this missive in the relative privacy of a broom cupboard. (Picture your once fashionable and elegant friend reduced to sitting in the gloom on an overturned bucket, paper balanced on one knee while a mop handle pokes her in regions best left unnamed.) Why am I in the broom cupboard, you ask? Be patient, my dear friend, for in time all will be revealed!
I was quite dismayed when George wrote to tell me you had chosen to return to the bosom of your own family immediately after I departed for Cornwall. Sterling and Laura would have been delighted to have you finish out the Season as their guest. It gave me great solace to picture you making the rounds of the afternoon teas, taking phaeton rides in Hyde Park, flirting and dancing the night away at all of the balls and soirees I might have attended had I not squandered my own Season for the price of a kiss. (Although it was admittedly a very fine kiss.)
Lest you picture me cowering in this cupboard to escape some hulking brute of a husband, let me assure you that the marquess has been the very model of solicitousness. Sometimes I wish he would shout and rail at me if only to prove he is aware of my existence. Although he plays the gentleman with unfailing courtesy, he tends to look through me rather than at me. (And as you well know, I've never excelled at being ignored.)
No, it is his daughter I seek to escape — the ten-year-old step-bratling who plagues every waking moment of my existence. I know I can't hide in here forever, as our afternoon "lessons" are due to begin in an hour. On most days, those lessons consist of me patiently conjugating French verbs while the cunning little imp yawns and taps her foot and gazes out the window, plotting her next nefarious deed. Only yesterday, I returned to my chamber to discover that all the precious ink in my bottles had been replaced with boot polish. While my first inclination was to hunt her down and dump them over her smug little head, I refused to give her the satisfaction.
What does the marquess make of his daughter's mischief, you ask? Although I suspect our little clash of wills is a secret source of amusement to him, he acknowledges it with nothing more than a raised eyebrow or the most imperceptible twitch of his lips as he ducks behind the most recent edition of The Times . He seems perfectly content to let the two of us battle it out, with all the spoils going to the victor.
My only solace lies in settling myself before my writing table each evening and penning some more glimmering shards of prose for my novel. (I did mention my novel, didn't I?) Fortunately, the nights have been peaceful, as the ghost has yet to make another appearance. (I did mention the ghost, didn't I?)
Wait! What's that I hear? Is it a stealthy footstep on the stairs? A shudder of dread courses down my spine as I crack open the cupboard door and steal a peek into the corridor. Ah, sweet relief! It's not the step-demon, but only the new maid, fleeing Martha's wrath. I've yet to catch a good look at the poor clumsy creature. She spends all of her time scuttling like a nearsighted crab from one domestic disaster to another. You can follow her progress through the house simply by listening for the sound of breaking crockery and Martha's bellowing.
There is so much more I want to tell you, but it's only a matter of time before I am discovered. Oh, dear, sweet Harriet, my friend and confidante, how I wish you were here!!!
Eternally yours,
Lottie
P.S. If I find one more bug in my shoe, I fear my husband won't be the only one in this house guilty of murder.
* * *
Two days after Lottie posted her letter to Harriet, the late afternoon sun came peeking out from behind the clouds in a rare appearance. Craving a taste of spring, Lottie decided to escape both the house and Allegra for a little while. She was strolling past the stables when she felt a now familiar prickling at the nape of her neck. Weary of being toyed with, she swung around, fully intending to blast Hayden's sullen little snoop of a daughter into next week.
A tiny yellow kitten was teetering after her on unsteady legs.
Lottie began to back away as if it were a Bengal tiger. "Oh, no, you don't! The last thing I need right now are more cats cluttering up my life. You just toddle right back where you came from." She continued to walk backward, making shooing motions with her hands.
Undaunted by her rejection, the kitten simply increased its pace until it ran full tilt into her ankles. Groaning, Lottie reached down and scooped the creature into her palm. With its hoarse mews and tufted yellow fur, it was more like holding a baby duck than a baby cat.
A gangly lad with a thick shock of black hair drooping over his brow came rushing out of the stables. When he saw her cradling the kitten, he skidded to a halt and doffed his battered cap. "Sorry for the trouble, m'lady. It's mum has gone missing. Left this wee one and three others just like it to fend for themselves."
Lottie barely resisted the urge to groan again. "Three others, you say, Jem?"
" 'Fraid so." The boy shook his head sadly. "And the poor mites barely big eno' to feed themselves."
As if to underscore his words, three more kittens of varying shapes and colors came waddling out of the stable, looking like a motley pack of overgrown rats.
As the yellow kitten scrambled up Lottie's arm and onto her shoulder, she blew out a sigh of defeat. "I don't suppose you have a basket in there as well, do you?"
* * *
Hoping to smuggle the kittens back to her bedchamber without being spotted, Lottie ducked through an open French window on the side of the house facing the sea. She batted her way through the smothering weight of the velvet drapes, finally emerging only to find herself facing an imposing mahogany desk stacked high with leather-bound ledgers.
A desk her husband just happened to be sitting behind.
He was eyeing her with detached interest, as if she were some exotic worm that had just tunneled its way out of the woodwork.
She clutched the basket to her chest, thankful that she'd had the presence of mind to tuck a kerchief over it. "Why, hello there!" she boomed, hoping to drown out the kittens' sporadic squeaking. "It's a grand day, isn't it? I've been out gathering…" she struggled to think of any sort of fruit or vegetable that might grow in such stony and inhospitable terrain "… walnuts. I've been out gathering walnuts."
Smiling pleasantly, Hayden reached for the tasseled bell pull dangling behind his chair. "Why don't I summon Martha? Perhaps she can ask Cook to bake them into a pie."
Lottie couldn't quite hide her horror. "Oh, no! Please don't do that! I much prefer to eat them right out of the shell."
"Suit yourself," Hayden murmured, returning his attention to the ledgers.
She crept toward the door.
"Carlotta?"
"Yes?"
Without looking up, he said, "They're bound to be hungry. You might as well stop by the kitchen for some kippers and cream."
Lottie froze in her tracks. Allegra was right. The man was insufferable. She gazed down at the undulating kerchief on top of the basket. What was it Laura and Diana had told her on the night before her wedding? That it was not uncommon for lovers to exchang
e small thoughtful gifts to woo one another outside of the bedchamber?
"You should be ashamed of yourself, my lord," she scolded, turning to face Hayden.
He at least did her the honor of glancing up from his work. "I should?"
"Yes, you should. Because now you've gone and spoiled my surprise." She approached the desk, inordinately pleased that she had succeeded in stirring some emotion in him, even if it was only suspicion. "I was hoping to tie a pretty ribbon around your gift before I presented it to you."
Plopping the basket down on the desk, Lottie whipped away the kerchief with a flourish. The kittens came spilling out in all directions, teetering about the desk on unsteady legs. Hayden could have looked no more horrified had she dumped a nest of poisonous vipers onto his blotter. Acalico kitten began to gnaw on the end of his pen while a black one darted toward an open bottle of ink.
He snatched up the ink in the nick of time. The kitten went careening over the side of the desk and into a wooden wastebasket, where it proceeded to set up a shrill mewing.
"Oh, look!" Lottie pointed to the yellow kitten. It had pounced into Hayden's lap and was sucking blissfully on one of the cloth-covered buttons of his waistcoat, its purr audible even over the other kitten's piteous pleas for rescue. "Isn't that darling? The little fellow thinks you're his mother."
Grimacing, Hayden gingerly detached the kitten, holding it at arm's length. "Well, I most certainly am not!" He shifted his glower from the cat to Lottie. "I appreciate your generosity, my lady, but what exactly am I to do with these… these… creatures."
Lottie backed toward the door, feeling as if she'd just lapped up a saucer of fresh cream herself. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should ring for Martha and have her bake them into a pie."
"Don't tempt me," he growled, shaking his leg in a futile attempt to dislodge the black kitten, who had finally managed to turn over the wastebasket and was now clawing its way up the leg of Hayden's doeskin trousers.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Lottie assured him, flashing a saucy smile before ducking out of the room.
* * *
Lottie was still smiling as she strolled through the entrance hall, heading for the kitchen. She figured she should at least help scrounge up some kippers and cream, although she couldn't have said whether it was out of pity for Hayden or the kittens. Perhaps she should even consider implementing some more of her aunt's and sister's suggestions. If nothing else, she had finally succeeded in getting her husband's undivided attention.
As she started down the corridor that led to the basement stairs, Meggie was approaching from the opposite direction, her coppery braids poking outfrom beneath her mobcap. Instead of pausing to bob a deferent curtsy as she usually did, the young maid brushed past Lottie with barely a mumbled pardon, her reddened face averted.
Lottie stared after her, shaking her head in puzzlement before proceeding.
Even before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the buzz of excited voices and merry laughter assailed Lottie's ears. Ducking beneath the rack of copper pots hanging from the plastered ceiling, she peeked around the corner to discover a group of servants gathered around the battered pine table, all gazing at something scattered upon its surface. Neither Giles, Martha, nor Mrs. Cavendish were anywhere in sight.
"Read that one again, Cook," one of the scullery maids demanded, pointing over a footman's burly shoulder.
"Read it yerself," Cook snarled, leaning forward until her bony nose practically touched the table. "I ain't done with this one yet."
"She can't," the footman said. "Her mum never taught her how to read."
The maid gave his liveried bottom a firm pinch. "But she taught me other things, didn't she, Mac?"
As they collapsed on each other's shoulders in a giggling heap, Cook handed a cheap broadside over her shoulder. "Here. Take this one. It's got pictures."
"Oooooh!" Cooing in unison, they snatched the broadside out of her hand, nearly ripping it in two in their eagerness. Lottie inched forward, her own curiosity getting the best of her. She turned her head this way and that, but could only make out a crude caricature of a man and woman.
"Will you just listen to this?" One of the maids who evidently couldread held up a rumpled newspaper, her eyes glittering with excitement. " 'Before trapping him into marriage, she was rumored to have enjoyed a number of liaisons with other men, including a brief dalliance with the king himself.' " Several of the servants gasped. " 'Her former lovers claim that her lusty appetites were exceeded only by her ambition.' "
Lottie winced in sympathy. Once she might have pored over the broadside with a lurid hunger even greater than theirs, but now she felt nothing but compassion for its ill-used victim. No woman, however impure, deserved to have her reputation tarred with such a black brush.
Cook snorted. "Whirlwind courtship indeed! More like a spider spinning a web for the fattest, juiciest fly it could catch."
"Ha! Listen to this!" Another pamphlet emerged from the fray. " 'After one torrid night of sin, the resourceful rector's daughter found the randy nobleman to be the answer to all her prayers.' "
"She don't look to be prayin' in this picture!"
The footman held up the broadside, bringing the drawing into vivid focus. It depicted a young woman with enormous eyes, an exaggerated topknot of curls, and a jutting bosom, down on her knees before a sneering gentleman. The footman was right. She was most definitely not praying.
Lottie touched a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly ill. Her hasty marriage might have placated the more reputable papers, but not these common rags. This was exactly what Sterling had sought to protect her from. He'd been willing to kill or risk being killed to silence these ugly voices forever.
"No wonder the master don't seem in no hurry to welcome her into his bed," one of the gardeners said. "He's probably afraid he'll catch the French pox."
"Or he might be waitin' to make sure she ain't got some other gent's get in her belly!"
They all burst out laughing, but the scullery maid's cackle died on a shrill note as she turned. The color drained from her ruddy cheeks, leaving them white as chalk. At first Lottie thought she'd caused the violent reaction, but the woman's horrified gaze was riveted on something just over Lottie's left shoulder. One by one, the servants nudged each other into silence.
"Would anyone care to explain the meaning of this?" Hayden's measured words cracked like gunfire in the sudden hush.
Lottie must have swayed without realizing it, for her husband's hands closed firmly over her shoulders, steadying her. Although her first instinct was to sink into him, to absorb both his warmth and his strength, she forced herself to remain upright. He was accompanied by a scowling Martha and a white-faced Mrs. Cavendish.
Newspapers and pamphlets quickly began to disappear under the table. "We was just havin' a bit o' fun, m'lord," Cook whined. "We meant no harm by it."
As the footman sought to tuck the broadside behind his back, Hayden reached for it.
"No!" Lottie darted forward and snatched the paper from the servant's beefy fist, wadding it into a ball before Hayden could see it.
Catching her by the wrist, Hayden tugged the broadside from her rigid fingers. As he unfolded it, she was tempted to close her eyes before he could realize what he was holding, but pride kept her burning gaze fixed firmly on his face.
As Hayden studied the crude drawing, a flush slowly crept up his throat. He lifted his dark-lashed eyes to hers, crumpling the paper in his fist. Despite the violence of the gesture, his voice was gentle as he said, "I'm so sorry. I had hoped to spare you this."
Every trace of that gentleness vanished as he returned his attention to his staff. "Who brought this rubbish into my home?"
No one even dared to breathe.
Moving to Cook, he held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she drew the yellowing newspaper out from under the table and laid it across his palm. He tossed it on the kitchen fire without even bothering to glance at it. The other servants w
asted no time in rising to file past the hearth, casting each newspaper, pamphlet, and broadside on the flames until the stench of burning newsprint filled the air.
Hayden swung around, his eyes pitiless. "Mrs. Cavendish, I hold you personally accountable for the actions of your staff. Would you care to identify the culprit who brought this… this refuse into my house?"
The housekeeper actually took a step backward. "B-b-but, my lord, I knew nothing of this until Meggie came to fetch me, just as she did you. How on earth am I to find the guilty party?"
Martha was scanning the servants' downcast faces one by one, her eyes narrowed. "You just leave that to me," she muttered, disappearing down the darkened corridor that led to the servants' quarters.
As the painful silence stretched, the footman ducked his head sheepishly and jerked his thumb toward the hearth. "Everybody knows they make up half that rot, m'lord. We meant no disrespect to her."
Hayden took a step forward, tension coiled in his every muscle, and for one dark moment, Lottie thought he might actually lay hands on the man. "Her? Do you mean my wife, perchance?" The possessive gleam in his eye gave Lottie a delicious little thrill. "Your mistress? The marchioness?" Hayden's frosty gaze swept over the rest of the servants. "The lady who has the power to dismiss the whole sorry lot of you with neither references or wages?"
They all looked so wretched that Lottie was about to reassure them she had no intention of doing any such thing when Martha came marching back into the kitchen, dragging a sobbing young maid. The girl's ill-fitting mobcap had slid down over her eyes. All that was visible of her face were two quivering lips and one very red nose.
"I've found our culprit!" the old nurse announced triumphantly. "All it took was a sound pinch and she confessed to having those nasty scandal sheets squirreled away in her valise. Well, you wicked girl, have you anything to say to your mistress before she sends you packing?" Martha gave the maid a shove toward Lottie, snatching away her mobcap.
The girl squinted at Lottie through her tears, her limp brown hair plastered to her head and her round face blotchy from weeping.