Her Ladyship's Man (2 page)

"I am sure the fact you have been out of the country for most of those years will explain the discrepancy, should anyone be so ill-bred as to make comment," Lord Terrington said in his loftiest voice.

Melanie uttered a heartfelt oath beneath her breath. Papa was right, she brooded. With such an excuse not even Prinny himself would dare to laugh at her. Still, there had to be something she could do to avoid the embarrassment of a presentation at her age. Her well-shaped ebony brows met over her nose as she considered the matter.

"But what will you do for a hostess?" she demanded as inspiration dawned. "It certainly would not do for a diplomat to set up a house without a hostess, and of course
I
could not possibly be presented without some sort of respectable lady to lend me her protection."

"That is so," the earl agreed, delighted that he had already foreseen such a difficulty. "Fortunately your grandmother has kindly consented to join us in London and see that you are properly presented." His light gray eyes took on an amused smile at the chagrin on his daughter's face. "I can see that you are delighted," he added sardonically.

"But Grandmother never leaves her home in the country," Melanie protested, shuddering at the prospect of her coming-out being managed by the dowager Marchioness of Abbington. She dearly loved the elderly lady, but there was no denying Lady Charlotte was anything other than a scheming virago.

"That is so, but then, it's not every day that her only granddaughter is presented at Court," the earl
replied with obvious satisfaction, pleased at the easy way he had bested his headstrong daughter. "She is quite delighted, I assure you."

Melanie did not doubt that for a moment. The marchioness had shrieked like a scalded cat when she announced her decision to join her father in Egypt rather than submitting to the rigors of a first season. She had set sail from Plymouth with Lady Charlotte's dire predictions ringing in her ears. Oh, yes, she thought, her lips twisting in a grim smile; she could well imagine her grandmother's delight at finally having her under her thumb.

"I thought we might leave next week." Lord Terrington knew by his daughter's silence that she had abandoned the battle, if only temporarily. "We will need time to settle into the house, and, of course, you and your grandmother will want to visit the dressmaker and arrange your—"

"The house!" Melanie interrupted, turning a victorious smile on her father. "You forget, Papa, you hired out our town house when we left England. Naturally we cannot expect the tenants to vacate merely because we have returned unexpectedly."

"Yes, that would be rather unreasonable of me, would it not?" he agreed, inclining his graying head solemnly. "How fortunate that the Foreign Secretary has been kind enough to offer us an alternative."

"An alternative?" Melanie asked warily, her heart dropping to the toes of her satin slippers as she saw the last avenue of escape closing before her.

"Mmm. It seems the viscount is a friend of the Duke of Marchfield, and when His Grace learned of my difficulty, he very generously offered me the use of his town house for the season."

"How very accommodating of his lordship," Melanie grumbled, reluctantly accepting defeat.

"Yes, it is, is it not?" Lord Terrington asked, a thoughtful note entering his voice. "I'll own I thought it rather odd at the time, considering we have never met. But I gather he did so only to please the Foreign Secretary. For all his racketing ways, His Grace is still a Tory."

Before Melanie could comment, there was a knock at the door, and a well-dressed young man with blond hair cropped à la Brutus entered the room.

"Your lordship, my lady, I trust I am not interfering?" he asked in a deferential tone, his blue eyes moving from the earl to Melanie. "I can come back later if you'd like."

"Not at all, Barrymore, not at all," the earl said heartily, motioning his young assistant forward. "We are almost finished, are we not, my dear?"

"Yes, Papa." Recognizing an evasive tactic when she saw one, Melanie acquiesced nonetheless. Even though her father was nominally on holiday while awaiting a new assignment, a diplomat's work was never done. Each post brought new dispatches from Whitehall, and she knew her father was eager to begin his work. Besides, she admitted ruefully, this would give her the opportunity to retreat in good order rather than to risk complete defeat at her father's hand. Turning to her father's assistant, she gave him a warm smile.

"I trust you won't overtire him, Mr. Barrymore," she said in her soft, musical voice. "He will need to preserve his strength for the delights of London."

"I shall do my best, my lady," Mr. Cecil Barrymore replied, dropping a graceful bow, his eyes never leaving Melanie's face. "And may I say how
much I am looking forward to seeing you presented at Court? You will make a beautiful debutante, I am sure."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrymore, that is most kind of you." Melanie managed another smile. She did not know why, but there was something about the handsome man's effusive praise that made her slightly uneasy. He had been in her father's employ since Washington, and although she could not fault his performance, neither could she bring herself to trust him. Shaking off the troubling sensation, she paused long enough to press a kiss on her father's cheek before taking her leave. Her father mentioned leaving at the end of the week, which meant she had fewer than five days to make the necessary arrangements for their move.

At least she wouldn't have to worry about hiring and training a new staff, she thought, making her way to the small study that had been set aside for her use. Although nothing had been said, she assumed the duke's staff would stay on during their brief occupancy. From her previous experience in such matters, she knew the servants would doubtlessly resent her authority, and that she would have to utilize every bit of diplomacy she possessed to keep the house running on a smooth course. It would be difficult, she admitted, but not impossible, and at least there wasn't the barrier of language to overcome. With that thought firmly in mind, she settled behind her desk, dipping her quill in the silver inkwell as she drew up a list of all the things that remained to be done.

"No, no, no, the polish must be rubbed
gently
into the silver, not applied slap-dash as if one were painting a stable!" Halvey, the Duke of
Marchfield's butler for the past twenty years scolded, snatching away the polishing cloth from Drew with obvious exasperation. "This fork has been in His Grace's family for fifteen years, and he would not thank you for ruining it. Now again, how do you prepare the mixture for cleaning silver?"

"By mixing Spanish white chalk with ammonia, Mr. Halvey," Drew replied dutifully, wiping a tired hand across his sweaty brow. He and the elderly butler had been locked in the small, airless pantry for what seemed hours, and he was as exhausted as if he'd spent the entire day in the saddle. It was barely seven in the evening, and he had been up since before dawn. How he longed for a respite from the endless training.

"And?" One of Halvey's bushy white eyebrows raised itself haughtily as he glared at Drew.

"And then the silver is rubbed with this." Drew held up a worn leather cloth that had been dipped in rouge.

"Very good." The butler acknowledged Drew's correct answer with a cool nod of his head. "I may also remind you that the silver must be rubbed with a woolen brush before it is repacked, otherwise the patina will be dulled."

"Yes, Mr. Halvey," Drew said, thinking that the formidable butler had missed his calling. He would have made an excellent top sergeant.

"I am sure Captain Merrick will remember your careful instructions, Halvey." A soft voice sounded from the doorway and both men turned to stare at the dark-haired woman who stood there, her dark hazel eyes shining with obvious amusement as she studied them.

"As you say, your grace," Halvey answered, giving the Duchess of Marchfield a stiff bow. "But one
can never be too careful. His Grace and Sir did say the captain was to be properly trained, and train him I shall."

"Oh, I have every confidence in you, Halvey," the duchess assured him, casting Drew a teasing wink. "But in the meanwhile, Captain Merrick's presence is requested in the drawing room. You will excuse us, I am sure."

"Of course, Your Grace," the butler said, his gray eyes flicking toward Drew as he rose from his bow. "But see that you are back within the hour, Captain," he instructed in frosty tones. "We will be reviewing the proper manner for discouraging unwanted callers. I fear your air of consequence will require some polishing if you are to be taken for a London butler."

"My congratulations for not laughing, Captain," Jacinda said as they made their way from the servants' hall to the front drawing room. "Not that you would have dared, I suppose. Halvey's air of consequence has never required polishing."

"He is rather overwhelming," Drew agreed, straightening his collar as they walked. "He is even more pompous than one of the royal dukes, and I must admit I am in awe of him."

"So was I when I first came here," Jacinda laughed, recalling her first encounter with the haughty butler. "But Anthony assures me he is the veriest lamb, and I must say he is a major domo par excellence. Prinny has tried hiring him away any number of times, but Halvey will have none of it."

"Loyal to Marchfield, is he?" Drew asked, momentarily diverted at the image of the exceedingly English butler moving stately through the Persian Halls of Brighton.

"Oh, exceedingly, but truth to tell, I suspect Halvey considers the prince beneath his notice. He is an ogre of propriety, you know."

"You must be speaking of Halvey, my love," the Duke of Marchfield drawled, his soft gray eyes resting on Jacinda as they approached the doorway. "You have never forgiven him for criticizing your last novel."

"Well, he called my hero, Lord Stiffback, a fop," Jacinda answered, shooting her handsome husband an impish smile. "But he changed his tune fast enough when I told him
you
were my inspiration for the character."

"Hussy, and after you promised you'd never tell anyone." Ignoring the presence of the other two men, Lord Marchfield bent to deposit a warm kiss on his wife's pert mouth. They had been married for less than a year, and it was obvious to Drew that they were very much in love.

"How is the training progressing?" Sir asked Drew as the Marchfields settled on the settee. "Do you think you will be ready in time?"

"If I don't expire from exhaustion first," Drew replied, easing his muscular frame onto one of the overstuffed chairs set before the fire. "I vow, I had no idea a butler's job could be so demanding. However much you pay Halvey, Your Grace, it cannot possibly be enough."

"That's because you don't know how much I pay him," Anthony remarked, draping his arm possessively about his wife's shoulders. "And I told you, I prefer to be called Anthony, or Marchfield, if you wish to be formal."

"Anthony," Drew said agreeably, thinking the other man was nothing like he had thought he would be. Rumor had it that prior to his marriage
the duke was as cold as a marble statue, but wedded life seemed to have softened him. The handsome man with dark hair and ice-colored eyes sitting opposite him was the epitome of the gracious host, but beneath that surface charm was the core of pure steel that was evident in all of Sir's operatives. Drew could well believe he would make the deadliest of opponents.

"My contacts tell me Terrington and his daughter will be in London by the middle of next week," Sir informed them, his blue eyes watching the flickering dance of the flames. "Will that give you and Jacinda enough time to arrange everything?"

"More than enough time," Jacinda answered calmly. "We have already put it about that we plan to spend the season and most of the summer rusticating at Anthony's country seat."

"Do you think anyone will be suspicious?" Sir fingered the fob hanging from his waistcoat. "This is your first season as the Duchess of Marchfield, and people may wonder at your absence."

"Oh, I am sure my 'explanation' will be accepted quickly enough," she murmured, a warm glow making the green in her eyes more prominent. "A lady who is increasing is usually not expected to participate in the social round, you know."

Sir sat up in shock. "Increasing?" he echoed, his eyes going to Jacinda's stomach. "Do you mean you are . . ." His voice trailed off in embarrassment, sending her into a fit of amused laughter.

"Ah, these confirmed bachelors," she said, resting her head on her husband's shoulder. "They are every bit as missish as maiden aunts when it comes to such things. But in answer to your question, Sir, I can promise you that my story can be easily con
firmed in about five months should anyone take the trouble to investigate."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sir demanded, shooting Anthony an indignant look. "I'd never have sent you on that last mission if I'd known!"

"I only learned of it myself," Anthony drawled, placing a protective hand over his wife's abdomen. "The minx refused to tell me sooner because she didn't want me worrying about her and the babe while I was away."

"Well, thank God for that," Sir muttered feelingly, relaxing against his chair. "A distracted agent is worse than useless, and I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened." There was a brief silence as the three men considered the dangers of their chosen profession.

"The viscount informs me that Terrington has accepted my offer," Anthony said after a few moments. "Apparently he seems to find nothing unusual in my offering my home to a complete stranger. Although I suppose we ought to be grateful; it would have been damned awkward had he refused."

"There was never a chance of that once Castle-reagh made the offer," Drew said knowingly. "Terrington is too wily a diplomat to risk offending his exalted superior. I'm sure he was most grateful that the Foreign Secretary should have gone to such pains on his behalf."

"How far is the Foreign Office willing to go with your plot, Sir?" Jacinda asked, casually taking it for granted that she would be numbered among the conspirators. Even though she was a civilian and a woman, she was well aware of the grim necessity for such scheming. As a loyal subject, she was more than willing to do her part for her country, a fact
she had already proven with considerable resourcefulness.