Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (3 page)

“Very well. I should be back before dark. Don’t bother with supper for me. I’ll get a meal on the way home.”

“Very good, sir.” Better than good. She would be satisfied with a crust of bread slathered in plum jam, but he might not be.

She couldn’t resist raising her eyes. The major took an oilskin coat from a hook and clapped a battered hat on his head. What sort of business did he have if he didn’t even put on a jacket over his linen shirt? For warmth alone he should be as layered as she had been, but he disappeared into the rain-slicked dooryard and headed off to the stables. Well, his business was none of her business. Anne had enough to worry about without adding gentlemen’s clothing to her list.

She was not entirely sure Major Ripton-Jones was a gentleman anyhow.

T
he rain had turned to sleet a few miles back and the road was black and icy as death. It was only because he knew the way from boyhood that Gareth was able to urge Penny on. The horse had been with him for almost two decades when they’d both seen things no living creature should survive, but here they were, in possession of most of their faculties if not their limbs. Gareth could have taken Job, his misnamed, livelier mount, for the ride to Hay-on-Wye, but there was comfort to be found on Penny’s old back. The horse seemed to sense that the reins were held in but one hand, and was accordingly polite.

The trip to town had been a failure, like all the trips before it. Worse, really, because Bronwen’s brother Rob had once again adamantly denied he was in possession of the Ripton family jewels, and they’d almost come to blows this time. It seemed there would be no getting the jewelry back, no hope to fob off his creditors for a few months. Rob was not a rich man, and keeping the girls while they waited for their father’s heir to return from the Caribbean and take them back to the abbey must be a drain on his pocketbook. Gareth supposed Rob had every right to dispose of Bronwen’s things, even if he said he’d never had the jewels to sell to begin with. Her daughters had to eat, didn’t they? Gareth was not such a monster as to deprive two little girls of their dinner. They had already been deprived of their mother and father.

And so Gareth had stopped by an inn along the road home to drown his disappointment, and then another when he got to Llanwyr village. Mrs. Chapman had not tossed him out of the Silver Pony when she should have, and even offered him a free room for the night. But he couldn’t stay—his new little housekeeper would worry, and he’d already gotten off to a bad start with her.

Gareth didn’t know why he should care about her feelings. In fact, there was little he
did
care about anymore. It was not always this way, but anyone who knew him would say he had good reasons to drink and distance himself from the shambles of his life. However, no matter how much cheap gin he gulped, he never quite cut the thread of consciousness. It was plenty frayed tonight though, and he’d be glad to find himself poured into bed.

He was not intoxicated. Not yet. But there was a bottle of inferior brandy in his bedside cupboard, out of sight of snoopy housekeepers. Brandy would make a nice change from the inferior gin. He’d spent the whole day mostly sober and was the poorer for it.

Penny nickered as the light over the stable shone weakly through the driving sleet. Pray that old Martin was still up to help him, for Gareth was weary to the bone and cold. Penny deserved a bucket of hot mash after the day they’d had, and he wasn’t sure he could stand on his feet much longer to give it to him.

“Almost there, lad, almost there.” His old mount stepped a bit livelier, tossing his head up to the stable block. To Gareth’s relief, Martin came down from his rooms almost immediately with a curse and a lantern and shooed him away.

Gareth tripped on the kitchen step and let himself in. A stubby tallow candle burned on the center of the table. He’d have to speak to Mrs. Mont—he had no coin for wasting candles to welcome him home. He could see in the dark, knew every inch of his father’s house, every squeaky floorboard above, every uneven piece of slate below. It was still a solid dwelling, even if he’d let things go to hell this past year.

Ripton Hall had begun its life a couple of centuries ago as a humble farmhouse. He’d slept over the kitchen wing since boyhood. The sloping ceilings were a nuisance to a man of his height, but at least he was warm enough through a Welsh winter. The rest of the bedrooms in the newer, more ambitious addition were shut up. Gareth never had visitors, although once the house had been a happy one.

No more.

He blew the candle out rather than carry it upstairs. He didn’t need light to strip out of his clothes and find his bottle. And more to the point, he needed his hand to steady himself up the rope railing.

One hand proved insufficient. His worn wet boots slipped on a stair tread. Before he had a chance to catch himself, he was bumping down the stairs in the dark, arse over teakettle. So much for being sure-footed and quiet in the dark. And blast it, he was not drunk, not really. The ridiculousness of his situation sank in, and he sat in a tangled heap, laughing at the absurdity of his life.

Mrs. Mont was up in an instant, her white night rail a ghostly blur in the back hallway. She had not paused to light a lamp or put on a dressing gown, but Gareth could see her anyway.

And hear her. She was shrieking over his laughter, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Are you all right? You must be, if you can cackle like a madman. You’re not hurt then?”

Gareth drew in a breath. Every inch of him throbbed, but he couldn’t call it pain. He knew what pain was, and this was its very distant cousin.

“Can you stand? Come into the kitchen, and I’ll fix you some coffee to clear your head.”

“I am not foxed, madam.” He heard her sniff. He imagined her little freckled nose twitching like a rabbit’s. “I’ll admit to a few pints of ale, but no more.” He wouldn’t mention the gin.

“You are not sober,” she said tartly.

“Sober enough to know your coffee might kill me.”

“It was much better this morning!”

He’d hurt her feelings. Good. Her coffee was
ghastly
.

“If you say so.” Gareth untwisted his long legs and steadied himself against the floor before he tried to rise. He wouldn’t admit his head was swimming just a little—no doubt he had knocked it on the wall as he came down so unexpectedly.

“Here. Take my hand and I’ll help you up. It’s a wonder you didn’t set yourself on fire with the candle I left you.”

“I didn’t bring it up with me, Mrs. Mont. And don’t leave a light burning for me again. It’s a wicked waste. I can see where I’m going.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that you do,” she said with sarcasm. She reached down and touched his shoulder. “Give me your hand,” she repeated.

“Which one?” He was rotten to be so churlish with her, but she simply bristled with disapproval. Old Cecily would never have pursed her lips as he thought Mrs. Mont must be doing—it was really too black in the hallway to tell.

He felt her stiffen over him. She smelled good, like spring. Spring was a long way off. By spring, he wouldn’t have a housekeeper—there’d be no house to keep.

“Major Ripton-Jones.” She now sounded a lot older than she looked. “It is a great pity you have lost your arm, but it is gone. The war has been over for five years. It is time you made peace with your infirmity.”

By God, she sounded like his old governess. He’d had one. The house had been full of servants when he was a child, the land productive, the future a bright and glowing place.

He didn’t bother telling Mrs. Mont where she’d gone wrong in her assumptions. “You think I feel too sorry for myself, do you?”

“It is not my place to say. But you are still a relatively young man with a long life ahead of you, God willing. You have property. Your health. You should not waste your days working your way down to the bottom of a gin bottle. I have seen the effects of gin in the city, sir. It is a wicked thing. Men and women—even children—lose their principles.”

“Principles.” He’d had them once, too, as well as a governess. But damn him if he was going to sit on the floor and be lectured by his housekeeper. She couldn’t even make a proper pot of coffee. How dare she tell him how to live his life?

This is what one got by advertising in a London newspaper for help. He should have gone to an employment agency on the other side of the border in Hereford. Found a nice old thing like Cecily who wouldn’t die and would leave him alone while he drowned his sorrows. Of course, they knew of him over in Hereford. Everyone within a hundred mile radius knew of Major Gareth Ripton-Jones. He was a bloody local hero.

And a murderer.

“Did your Lady Pennington allow you to talk to her like this?”

“Lady Pennington would not fall down the stairs drunk, Major.”

“I am not drunk, damn it!” He wasn’t. He rather wished he was.

“I’ll fix a cup of tea, then. I
can
boil water, and you can get out of your wet coat.”

He’d forgotten to hang it on the hook when he came in. Gareth realized he’d produced quite a puddle at the foot of the stairs. He was soaked through.

Perhaps he’d succumb to lung fever and die. That would solve all his problems.

“I don’t want tea.” But it would be hot, just the thing to defrost him and ease his aches. “Oh, very well. I won’t permit you to speak while you fix it, however. You’ve said more than enough. Is that why you needed new employment? Were you turned off for your insolence? You’re very cheeky for a housekeeper.” He grabbed the rope railing and hauled himself upright.

“I am sorry if I offended you, Major.” She didn’t sound one bit sorry though.

He allowed her to fly around the kitchen, lighting a lamp, stirring up the ashes of the stove, pumping water, throwing a small handful of tea leaves in his grandmother’s teapot. Her head was not covered with a nightcap, and her long brown braids whipped back and forth. If she knew he could see clear through her oversized night rail, she might not be well-pleased, but he wasn’t about to tell her so she could cosh him in the head. It was sore enough already.

There were lush curves under the cheap cotton, and she was awfully young to be a housekeeper for all her stodgy criticism. Gareth was beginning to realize it was nearly scandalous that someone like Anne Mont was living with someone like him. There would be talk in the village, but then there always was. He should get rid of her—would, once he figured out how. At the moment he was enjoying the view, her large breasts bouncing with every footstep, the nipples hardened in the chill of the room. She was not tall, but very nicely rounded everywhere. Mr. Mont, if he’d ever existed, had been a lucky man. He shifted in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t notice the effect she was having on him.

He’d been without a woman far too long if his freckled little housekeeper was so appealing.

And he should resent her. She didn’t speak to him as a deferential housekeeper should. From the first she’d been judgmental, offering her opinions uninvited. Her speech was out-of-the-ordinary as well. It slipped from near-Cockney to the mellowest vowels imaginable, as if she was training herself to ape her betters. Perhaps she saw herself as a Cinderella who could somehow rise above her station if she perfected her accent.

What would she look like in a ball gown? Something that would dip low to thrust her impressive breasts within sight. Touch. Gareth wondered if her chest was as freckled as her face. He knew some women resorted to all sorts of concoctions in a vain attempt to remove freckles, but he had always found them rather charming.

Mrs. Mont set a cup in front of him, as silently as he’d requested.

“Will you join me?” he asked.

Her eyes flashed. Sparked. They were the color of a shaded green glen, with a bit of gold fire to them. Lord, she was right—he was drunk if he thought her plain hazel eyes were doing such preposterous incendiary things. She shook her head, still mute.

“You may speak. Tell me my shortcomings. We haven’t had a proper conversation yet, have we?”

“I am a servant, Major Ripton-Jones. We don’t converse with our m-masters.”

She had trouble even spitting out the word. “You do if that’s what the master wishes. You are obligated to fulfill my every need.” He tried a teasing smile.

Out of practice judging from the look of horror on her face.

“I am not here to do
all
your bidding, sir!”

Well, this was interesting. Her fertile mind had leapt from discussion to debauchery.

“What sort of bidding do you suppose I have in mind, Mrs. Mont?” He took a sip of tea. It was too sweet, unlike the woman—nay,
girl
—in front of him.

“I’m sure I don’t know what goes on in a gentleman’s mind, Major. But I am a virtuous widow and will give no one cause to think otherwise.”

“I am not about to assault your virtue, Mrs. Mont. I’m much too tired.”

“Oh.”

Did she sound disappointed? Wishful thinking on his part. He was no prize. Not anymore. He didn’t even have a proper coat to go a-wooing in.

He was done with wooing anyway. And he didn’t have his mother’s jewels to sweeten any bargain now that Rob had apparently stolen and sold them, even if the man said he hadn’t. Gareth’s father had been a fool to give them to Bronwen, as if cold hard stones would change her mind and bind her to him.

And Bronwen? She’d been a bitch to take them and spurn Gareth anyway.

“Please. Sit.” If she kept standing before the glow of the stove grate he would not be able to guarantee her virtue very long. His throat dried despite the tea. Her body was illuminated beneath the thin fabric, plump thighs visible, a shadow of fox-colored thatch between them. He swore he could see the color of her nipples, pale like rose marble. Her dull brown hair seemed coppery in the firelight, loose wisps curling about her heart-shaped face.

“I am not thirsty, Major Ripton-Jones. And I’m ready for bed. There is much to be done tomorrow and my day will start early.”

“Take the day off.” He smiled a little more successfully as she gawked at him. “I know you’ve just arrived, and I’ve been remiss in telling you the conditions of your employment. Now seems as good a time as any.”

“All right.” She sat down at the opposite end of the old pine table, her small hands folded in expectation. There were fresh pink calluses on her white skin. Her last place of employment must have been a picnic compared to Ripton Hall.

“You’re to take one full day a week for yourself. I don’t care which one—that’s for you to decide. Just tell me. And if you find the need to change the day, let me know. I’ve gotten quite good at shifting for myself.”