“Tart?” Aghast, she crossed her arms. “Termagant, perhaps, but tart, I think not!” And then suddenly it dawned on her what he was threatening. “You can’t mean—”
“Say good-bye to this book.”
“You heathen,” she cried. “You shaggy mongrel!”
“Mongrel I am not,” he snarled. “And so help me God”—he smirked—“or shall I say, the Devil”—she gasped—“but if you do not bring me those goddamned newspapers this minute—”
“Woof!” she cried. “Woof woof, yap away!”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. Where had that come from?
He, too, seemed shocked. He gawped at her for a long, silent moment. Then he pivoted away.
“No—wait!” That poor book! She started around the chiffonier—checked when she heard him loose a roar—more leonine than canine, to be fair—and then came a great, thunderous crash.
He swung back into view. “Your books,” he said with a savage grin, “have seen better days.”
He had toppled the bookcase. “You boor! You—” She hauled together the newspapers and carried them in a great armful toward the sitting-room hearth. “Fuel for the fire! What use has a hermit for news anyway—”
Hands closed on her shoulders. They spun her around so violently that she lost her balance, and grabbed onto the nearest support, which turned out to be—him.
Her jaw dropped. Yes, those were her hands gripping his arms. His arms. Like iron, they were.
He was out. He was outside his bedroom.
Her fingers sprang away as though from lit coals. But her retreat was stopped cold by his grip on her elbows. He crushed them down to her ribs, and held her pinned there before him as his breath came and went as hard as a bellows.
She made herself look at him. His face was a terrible mask, the force of his rage apparent in the pulsing vein in his temple. Her gaze bounced away from his, the awful, glassy fixedness of his blue, blue eyes, and landed on the newspapers, piled on the floor.
As far as final views went, it was not so inspiring.
“You,” he said very low, and then paused—a hush like the moment before the guillotine dropped.
That sentence would go nowhere good. She made her lips move, though they felt stiff as wood. “How good,” she croaked, “to see you out of your room.”
Bull’s-eye! He recoiled from her, staggering back a pace. He looked around blindly, wildly, as though only now realizing where he stood.
Here was her chance. She would run.
And he would run, too—straight back to his bedroom.
Her joints felt rusted, congealed, so hard did they fight her as she stooped to the floor and gathered up the newspapers. “Here,” she said, and held them out, praying he did not notice how they shook in her grip. “Read them on this sofa.” The suggestion came out as a hysterical shrill. “The light is very fine here!”
Staring at her, he reached for the papers like a man underwater, moving slowly, slowly—but his hands, instead, closed on her wrists.
She flinched and froze, or tried to—the instinct of a cornered hare commanding her to go still. But the terrified pounding of her heart rocked her in her boots. You’re in it now, a mocking little voice nattered in her brain.
His hands were very large; they engulfed her wrists, wrapping like hot manacles around her. His thumbs pressed directly against her pulses.
He knew precisely how hard her heart was beating.
“How do you dare?” he said softly.
She looked up into his face. His eyes had lost their glassy blankness. He was—the realization jolted through her—looking at her, studying her, with great intensity. And his expression was far from blank.
She stared back, surprised so completely that she had no defenses against that look. She fell into it headfirst, fascination engulfing her suddenly and completely. What did she see in his face now? What, in her own face, could possibly inspire such riveted, arrested attention?
“How do you dare?” He whispered it again, as his fingers flexed around hers. And then, without warning, his thumbs stroked over the sensitive skin of her inner wrists.
Her breath fled her. She felt a flush of heat, bizarre, weakening. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes. You do.”
His thumbs stroked again. She swallowed. The sensation bothered her. It affected her far too deeply. She felt the pull of it in her belly. She had to look away from him. In a moment, she would.
“Woof?” he said.
A blush stung her cheeks. “Well. You must admit, you do need a haircut.”
A faint smile ghosted over his mouth. His fingers loosened; they slipped over hers as they withdrew. “Is there anyone in this house whom I could trust to wield the scissors? I have given them all cause to aim for my throat.”
Was that a joke? Miracle of miracles! “Come now,” she said hoarsely. “Be sensible. Dead men pay no salaries.”
His smile flickered to life again, then guttered out. He frowned and turned his face away. “Send someone to straighten the bookcase,” he said gruffly.
Another miracle. “At once, Your Grace.”
She picked up her skirts and dashed out the door—straight into Vickers, who caught and steadied her.
“My God,” he whispered, his eyes huge. “My God, Mrs. Johnson.”
She pulled free of him. She had no time for nonsense. “Didn’t you hear him? You were eavesdropping, weren’t you? I must fetch the maids. We’re to clean his rooms.”
Vickers dashed after her as she flew down the stairs. “I didn’t hear him say that. Only that somebody was to straighten the bookcase—”
She cast an impatient glance over her shoulder. “Clearly,” she said, “you don’t know how to listen.”
* * *
She returned an hour later—far longer than she would have liked, but the maids had proved ridiculously recalcitrant to accompanying her; it had taken several threats to persuade them. Threats! And her! She had never fancied herself a bully, but Marwick was proving an excellent tutor.
She left the girls waiting in the hallway, looking pale and anguished like martyrs on the eve of execution, while she entered to make a quick survey of the battlefield.
The reigning lunatic sat on the sofa, immersed in the pages of the Morning Herald.
She breathed a sigh of relief. He must have heard her, for he lifted his brows, but did not look up. “I’ve brought the maids—”
“No,” he said, and turned the page.
She decided she had not heard him. “And the footmen will right the bookcase,” she continued. “How good to see you’re still out here. Well done. Of course, you must forgive me for congratulating you on such a simple trick—remaining in place; it’s not as though you were a toddler, and liable to crawl off. But you must know how they talk—downstairs, I mean.”
This taunt was a calculated risk. Had he any pride left? If so, it would be useful.
He blinked. And then looked up, his face darkening. “Downstairs?”
Yes, she knew enough of him now to guess he would not like being the subject of gossip. “Below stairs.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Your staff, I mean.”
He made some curious noise. And then he stood, knocking the sofa back a foot. “You’re saying my staff is doubting my ability to inhabit my own bloody sitting room?”
“Oh, well”—she shrugged and gave a trailing little laugh, which sounded perhaps a touch more nervous than she intended—“idle hands are the devil’s playground. And when you don’t let anybody in to clean, how else are they to occupy themselves?”
He thrust his hand through his blond hair and turned full circle, as though looking for something. “Where is Vickers?” he snapped. “God damn it, how are you always getting in here?”
She stifled her own snort. But how amusing, to imagine Vickers trying to stop her. “Your valet is in the kitchen, loitering with the cook’s assistant. When not there, you will typically find him in th
e hallways, flirting with the maids. I warn you that his suit on all fronts is too far advanced for comfort. I am predicting a surprise, or several, in nine months’ time.”
His mouth twitched. It must have been a passing spasm, not a smile, for it faded instantly. He turned on her a narrow, assessing look. “How indelicate of you, Mrs. Johnson.”
Was she a missus now? How gratifying. “I am prone to indelicacy,” she admitted. “It is a flaw.”
“One of several,” he bit out.
“Yes, but who’s counting?”
With a snort, he sat back down. He’d unbelted his robe, and it parted now to show that his shirttails were untucked. How much weight had he lost? Those trousers barely stayed up.
What was wrong with her? Surely she had not just entertained a flicker of curiosity about what she would see if they fell?
His lunacy must be catching. Feeling itchy and out of sorts, she said, “May I ring for tea for you? The girls will happily clean around you, provided you promise not to menace them.”
“No.” But he said it very quietly.
“No tea, quite right, far too early for that. Stay right where you are. This won’t take above an hour.”
And then, before he could countermand her, she dashed out and grabbed Polly’s wrist. “Come on, then.”
Polly in turn grabbed Muriel’s elbow. “I won’t go!”
“Oh, Lordy,” Muriel squealed, her feet sliding as Olivia dragged Polly—and, by extension, her as well—toward the door. “Doris, run for your life!”
Doris turned tail and broke for the stairs.
“Not another foot,” Olivia shouted. “Back here at once.”
Doris’s shoulders slumped. Haltingly she turned back.
“I won’t go,” Polly shrieked. “I won’t—” She fell silent in mid-squeal, her face graying.
Olivia glanced over her shoulder, and discovered the duke in the doorway, staring in plain disbelief at this scene.
“I told you, no need to get up,” she said brightly. She dropped Polly’s wrist. “It’s perfectly all right,” she said. And then, angling her body so Marwick could not see, she gave Polly a sharp shove on the shoulder.
* * *
The maids went about their business, rustling and timid as mice. He ignored them. They were irrelevant. His mad housekeeper, hair as red as a bullfinch’s breast, irrelevant. All he cared for was this editorial he had uncovered, at the back of the Morning Herald. It had been written by a man he’d once counted a friend—a man who probably had no notion of how offensive and ludicrous this headline was: LORD SALISBURY’S JUDICIOUS CHOICE.
Beneath it, in slightly smaller print, lay the thrust of the piece: BARON BERTRAM A BOON FOR ENGLAND.
He made his jaw unlock. He took a deep, deep breath.
Archibald, Baron Bertram: a distinguished man of fifty-odd years, unctuously pleasant to his political opponents, fastidiously proper in his manners. A regular attendee of services at St. George’s Hanover Square, Wednesday and Sunday both. The best, most irreproachable choice to lead the Liberals now, or so fools and naïfs believed: a godly and principled man, devoted to family and empire.
Margaret had entertained several men. But all of them had been his political enemies, save Bertram. Bertram had been his ally in the House of Lords. His coconspirator, his main support.
Other words popped out from the article: Meritorious. Dedicated. Humble . . .
The illustrator had rendered a fine likeness of the smug tilt to Bertram’s nose.
Alastair grew conscious of the bed in the next room. It was new, a replacement for the bed where he’d lain so many nights beside Margaret, never imagining how she made a fool of him.
Margaret would not have dared bed Bertram in this house. But for his own satisfaction, Alastair had stripped the duchess’s apartment, put the furniture to auction, and disassembled that grand, canopied bed where she had slept. He had taken it apart with his bare hands and donated it to a workhouse for kindling last spring.
A small commotion broke his reverie: a thud, a gasp. He glanced up and caught the blond maid righting a vase. She froze in his sights like a fox in the crosshair.
“Go on, Muriel.” His housekeeper issued this directive from the bedroom doorway, where she stood with her hands folded at her waist, supervising.
Annoyed, he laid down the paper. This woman had the peculiar ability to radiate an authority that she did not, in fact, possess. “Mrs. Johnson. Tell me something.”
She turned toward him, smiling serenely. Had she looked in the mirror? Her skin was lineless, smooth and flush and freckled like a child’s. Was she aware of her age? She had ample cause to fear him. God knew she had seen him in states that—he could not bring himself to think on it. She was only a domestic; what did it matter?
She had thought him on the edge of suicide.
He gritted his teeth. She was only a domestic. It did not matter. What irked him was the leisurely quality to her movements, as though she could not be surprised or intimidated by anyone—even he. Her confidence made no sense. Was she even twenty-five? What had Jones been thinking? It wasn’t seemly to have a housekeeper so young. Her hair was as bright and vivid as a flag. It was bloody ridiculous, in fact. Artificial, surely.
He needed to have a word with Jones. Get to the bottom of this absurd hiring decision.
“I wonder,” he said icily, “that my staff cannot pursue their duties without your supervision.” She was always underfoot. “Have you no other duties to attend?”
She shrugged. “I am happy to make time for Your Grace’s comforts.”
Against his express wishes. Yes, he had noticed. Why he continued to tolerate her, he did not know. Boredom, no doubt. Perverse amazement at her lunacy. She had the softest skin he’d ever touched.
He shifted in his seat, disliking that last thought extremely. “I did not speak of myself,” he said cuttingly. “I spoke of the staff. If they do not know their roles well enough to perform them without your guidance, then I suggest you rectify that.”
She nodded immediately. “A fine plan, Your Grace. In fact, I have already begun to do so. It is human nature to wish to please one’s master, is it not? And I have arranged this opportunity for it.” She beamed. “I fear it has been sorely lacking of late.”
He sat back, astonished. How dared she rebuke him?
She offered him another beatific smile.
He scowled and averted his gaze to the newspaper. He did not like her smile. Until she smiled, she was inoffensively plain. Overly young, but with an air of intelligence—ha! A very deceptive air, no doubt owed to her spectacles and her oddly refined accent.
Her smile, however, broke the illusion that her face was a perfect square. It brought a dimple into her cheek. It drew one’s attention to her mouth, which was full lipped, but only on the bottom. Her upper lip was . . .
Not his concern. And if she was, by some very gymnastic stretch of the imagination, pretty, then that was another flaw. Housekeepers were not pretty. Properly, they were too aged to be recognizably female.
“How old are you?” he asked, his eyes on the paper.
“Old enough, Your Grace, to appreciate the boons of cleanliness. I predict you will greatly enjoy the results of our efforts.”
He glared at the headline. He should dress her down for this cheek. He should sack her. Again. God damn it, why was she still here?
He took a deep breath. It stopped his next words. By God. The air was taking on a clean, crisp scent that struck him as . . . agreeable.
The vixen was right. These rooms had been overdue for scrubbing.
“Mind your tongue,” he bit out, and snapped the newspaper taut. Jones had done a poor job of ironing. The man should know better.
After a moment, her silence began to irk him. He had rebuked her. She should offer an apology. It set a bad example for the maids.
He looked up to say something sharp—and found her assisting one of the girls. The maid had discovered a pile of le
tters sitting unopened on his sideboard. She’d begun to carry them away in bunches with her bare hands. Mrs. Johnson was whispering to her: “On a silver salver, Muriel. You know this.”
“But there’s so many!”
Mrs. Johnson glanced up and found him watching. “Your Grace, how shall we sort your mail? Would an alphabetical organization suit you?”
How in God’s name would that help? “Just leave it there.”
“To properly clean the sideboard—”
“I said, leave it!”
Her lips pressed into a mulish line. The heightening color on her face brought her freckles into livid clarity. Freckles were not fashionable; so many freckles might be counted a disfigurement. How was it that they all clustered on the roses of her cheeks?
Scowling at himself, he once again turned to the newspaper.
“Perhaps,” she said, “if I were to sort them by the postmark—”
“No.” The very thought of all those letters made his chest tighten. The pile grew and grew. One would imagine, with no reply, his correspondents might realize he did not wish to hear from them. But they simply kept writing. Christ God. Open one and he would have to open them all. Answer one and he would have to discover what the rest of them wanted. “Burn the lot.”
Silence.
He glared at the newsprint. It might as well have been in Egyptian.
“Perhaps it would be easier,” she said tentatively, “if someone opened them, and sorted them by degree of urgency—”
He slammed down the paper. Four women froze as one. A strange feeling ghosted over him, ancient, barely recognizable: embarrassment.
He took a deep breath. “I do not wish to read them.” His voice remained level; that was something. “I do not care what’s in them. I will not answer them. Burn them, Mrs. Johnson.”
Her face made a curiously transparent screen for her thoughts. He could see, in the faint twitch of her brow, how deeply she disapproved of his order. And then, in the back-and-forth tick of her jaw, the ridiculous, thoroughly out-of-line impulse surfacing in her. She was going to argue.
“But what if . . .” she began, and then trailed off.
As he waited, her blush deepened. She cleared her throat and looked away; glanced back at him, and then quickly away again.