Lily (12 page)

“Brandy.”

“Anything in addition to that?”

“No.” He watched her drop another of her ironic curtseys and slip out the door.

Anything in addition to that?
What sort of way was that for a housemaid to talk? The girl was educated, but for some reason she wouldn’t admit it. He closed his eyes and settled deeper into the pillows, wincing. A more interesting question was, what sort of way was that for a housemaid to
look?
he thought sleepily, remembering her naked before the fire, as lovely and desirable as any woman he’d ever seen. Even Maura.

Maybe they were two of a kind. They both came from the servant class; they were both too clever by half for the social niche that fate had set them in. They both had guileless faces and kind, innocent eyes. But Maura had possessed a treacherous heart. How fortunate that Lily Troublefield’s heart didn’t interest him even remotely.

Her body did, though. Her body interested him quite a good deal. He fingered the soft gold threads at the end of the bell pull while he stared into the still-glowing coals across the way. A minute later he gave the rope a violent jerk, then four more after that, evenly spaced, each harder than the last. In his eyes there wasn’t a particle of amusement.

Breathless, Lily skidded into the kitchen half a minute before the bell rang. She had time to greet the cook, the scullery maid, and one yawning footboy, the only ones up at this hour, when the bell in the wall over the door jangled and all heads turned. Number 4, the master’s bedroom. Amazement registered on every upturned face. “I’ll go,” Lily said quickly, confident that no one would challenge her; there was no one else up yet who
could
go.

She hurried out into the hall. But at the foot of the stairs she pivoted and made a right turn into the open door of the estate agent’s office. She hurried to the far end of Mr. Cobb’s cramped but tidy room, away from the door and out of view of anyone who might pass in the hall. There she waited, counting off the minutes she estimated it would take to walk upstairs, listen to the master’s order, and come back down. She smoothed her skirts with damp palms, wondering if Lowdy had missed her last night. The girl had made no mention of it just now when Lily had crept into their attic room for a clean apron—but she had just woken up, and coherent speech was beyond her so early in the morning.

When it seemed to Lily that enough time had passed, she returned to the kitchen. “Mr. Darkwell wants his breakfast immediately,” she told the cook. “He’s not feeling well. He asked for hot broth and dry toast and an egg. And a pitcher of beer.”

Mrs. Belt peered at her in surprise, but didn’t hesitate. “Dorcas, fetch an egg from the larder and be quick,” she directed as she took down the grill to set over the hearth for toast.

The butler and a few sleepy servants drifted in, mumbling good morning. Lily kept an apprehensive eye on the progress of the master’s tray, praying it would be ready before the housekeeper arrived. The topic of the day was Mr. Darkwell’s “illness,” and there was much speculation on what time in the night he might have come home.

“There, it’s ready.” Mrs. Belt laid a cloth over the tray and gestured for Lily to take it.

“What’s this? Where are you going with that?” Mrs. Howe stood blocking the door, black-garbed and bulky, impenetrable as a boulder. Behind her Lily saw Trayer, his face a hostile, goading replica of his mother’s.

“It’s—it’s the master’s breakfast,” she stammered. “He rang early and told me to bring it up. He’s not feeling well.”

“Told
you
to bring it?” Trayer shoved into the room on his mother’s heels and stood in front of Lily with his fists on his hips. “That’s Rose’s job. I’ll take it up myself if she’s not down yet.”

Lily tightened her grip on the tray in near-panic. This was exactly what she had feared! “Mr. Darkwell told me to bring it,” she said as calmly as she could.

“I’ll take it,” Trayer repeated.

“No. What I mean is, he said for
me
to bring it. He—said he didn’t want anyone else. And he said for you not to come to him today. He—doesn’t want you.”

The kitchen went silent. She looked at no one except Trayer, but she could feel the focused eyes of every person in me room. Measuring her. Judging.

Trayer spoke in a low snarl. “You’re lying.”

She shook her head, and the tense stillness flowed back.

Mrs. Howe finally broke it. “Go on, then,” she said in a quiet voice that frightened Lily more than if she had shouted. “You don’t want it to get cold, do you? Get upstairs quick, then come back and help cook with the baking.”

Lily muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” and escaped, head down and face expressionless, careful not to look at anyone. But she heard the soft, surly growl of gossip start before she was halfway down the hall.

When she pushed Devon’s door open, she found him leaning against the high bureau, white as chalk, trying to shave.

“Judas!” She set the tray on the desk and rushed toward him. “What are you doing?” She took the razor from him and moved him toward the bed with a firm, insistent hand at his back. “I thought you had better sense,” she clucked under her breath, “I truly did. Sit down before you faint. How do you feel? You’re as pale as the sheet. What got into—”

“Lily.” His voice was stern, but Devon imagined he didn’t cut a very commanding figure when his hands were trembling, he wore nothing but his breeches, and three-quarters of his face was covered with drying soap. “I’ll remind you that it’s not your place to tell me what to do. Your job is to do exactly what I tell you to do. Is that clear?”

“Yes, that’s perfectly clear. I beg your pardon, my lord, I forgot myself. What is it you would like me to do?”

It was impossible to tell whether her remorse was genuine. He studied her limpid gray-green eyes, serious mouth, and demurely folded hands, and decided it wasn’t. For some reason that pleased him. “I’d like you to help me finish shaving,” he conceded gravely. “I don’t think I can manage it on my own.”

Her pique dissipated. “Well, then. Sit down.” She hurried to the bureau to retrieve his shaving things. “The soap’s dried out,” she murmured as she wet her hand in the basin and moistened the lather on his face by making little circles with her fingertips. She dipped the razor in the basin, shook it off, and began scraping the whiskers along his jaw, her other hand resting on his throat. “I’m sorry the water is cold; your valet probably heats it.”

“Mm.” He was thinking how pretty her mouth was. “Did Trayer give you any trouble?”

“Oh …” She shrugged.

“Did he?”

“Nothing to speak of. Do this.” She pulled her top lip under her teeth. He copied her, and she began to shave under his nose.

When she finished, he said, “You’ve done this before, I see. For your young man?”

She busied herself scraping away at his left cheek. “Certainly not. When my father was living, sometimes he needed help.”

“Why?”

He certainly was full of questions. She decided to tell him the truth. “Sometimes he drank too much. If he’d shaved himself the next morning he’d have cut his throat. There.” She wet the face cloth and wiped away the last traces of soap. “That’s done. Your breakfast is getting cold. Why don’t you lie down—if it pleases you,” she remembered to say, “and let me bring the tray to you. Do you think you can—”

“Never mind that. I want you to help me get dressed.”

“But
why?”
His black scowl, hostile and supercilious at the same time, made her draw in her breath. “I beg your pardon again,” she got out stiffly. But she couldn’t let it lie. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but you have a serious injury. In my”—she wouldn’t say
humble—
“in my opinion you need to rest in bed. You won’t have a doctor, so the wound can’t be stitched. If it should open again and start bleeding—”

“Damn it, I know all that.” He watched her frown and press her lips together to hold back more advice. Sensible advice. He sighed. “Listen to me. It’s very likely that I’ll be receiving visitors sometime today. I need to get ready for them. For reasons that don’t concern you, it’s important that the nature of my—mishap not become known to them. Do you take my meaning?”

“I understand you don’t want these ‘visitors’ to know that last night you were stabbed in the shoulder. I don’t understand why.”

“Nor do you need to. Now get me a clean shirt. Please,” he added magnanimously.

“Tell me one thing. Is your brother safe?”

He went stiff. “That’s none of your business.”

Lily didn’t move. She waited with the razor in one hand, the bowl of soapy water in the other, and returned his steely glare witìh steady, clear-eyed composure.

Devon shook his head in disgust. If he wanted his shirt, he’d have to tell her about Clay; the woman was like a hound after a fox. “Clay’s fine. Not a mark on him. I was the lucky one.”

Is it true that he captains his own ship and leads a gang of smugglers? she wanted to ask next. But the moment of candor was over, she was certain, and instead she said, “Where do you keep your shirts?”

She got him dressed in a clean shirt and stock and a velvet smoking jacket, once again ignoring the fact of, the very existence of, his breeches. But this time her luck didn’t hold.

“Lily,” he said patiently, perched on the edge of the bed and clinging again to the post, “this maidenly shyness is very charming, but also irritating under the circumstances. I can’t wear these buckskins any longer. Apart from other considerations, they’re in deplorable fashion with my velvet jacket. Even Trayer would be offended, a man not fluently conversant with the
bon ton.
” He rested his temple against the post, exhausted by his speech, and privately surprised by his own levity. “Find me some breeches,” he finished with his eyes closed. “We’ll contrive a way to get them on without debauching your sensibilities.”

In the end they managed it fairly easily, aided by the fact that his white cambric shirt hung down almost to mid-thigh, sparing Lily the sight of anything so overtly masculine as to distress her. His lighthearted mockery helped; she knew she was behaving like a ninny, and getting her skittish nerves out in the open between them somehow soothed her.

“I think you should lie down now,” she told him as she knelt at his feet and put his stockings and shoes on for him. “If your ‘visitors’ come, you’ll have plenty of warning and can be sitting up before they come in.”

“I’ll greet them downstairs.”

“But that’s absurd!” She saw his expression and ducked her head. “I meant to say, my lord, that you—”

“I told you to stop my-lording me.”

“Yes, sir. I only meant to say that in my opinion that would not be wise.”

“And what gives you the idea that your opinion matters to me in the slightest?”

Lily finished buckling his shoes and rose smoothly to her feet. “Nothing at all. Forgive me. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

She kept her eyes downcast, but her lips were stiff with anger. He watched her fingers clench at her sides twice, three times, before she was calm enough to lift her chin and look at him. He admired her self-control; her face was quiet, the green eyes level and composed. But behind their surface placidity he saw fires burning.

The curtsey she bobbed was flawless and utterly without connotation this time. If he didn’t need her any longer, she murmured, she begged to be excused. But she gave herself away when she turned and went to the door without waiting for his permission.

“Lily.”

“My lord?”

They engaged in a brief staring contest.

Lily backed down. “Sir?” she corrected tersely.

Another moment passed. Then Devon said, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’ll see them here. Sitting at my desk.”

“Very good, sir.” But what she longed to say was,
What gives you the idea that anything you do interests me in the slightest?
It would have given her great satisfaction, in spite of the fact that it wasn’t true. “Can you manage breakfast on your own?” she asked impassively.

“Yes. Thank you.”

His voice was civil now, almost kind. It was a truce, of sorts. “Then I’ll leave you. Mrs. Howe will be looking for me. I’ll come back, if you like. As soon as I can.” He nodded. Their gazes held for another second, and then she went away.

It hadn’t seemed to Lily that she’d been gone that long, but when she went into the servants’ hall she discovered that breakfast was over and no one was about except Dorcas and another girl, clearing the table. Dorcas’s usually pasty face was bright pink with excitement.

“Mrs. ‘Owe d’ say you’re t’ come to ‘er room,” she informed Lily as soon as she saw her.

“When, Dorcas? When does she want me to come?”

“Now, miss. She’m ever so mad!” Her lackluster eyes sparkled, but whether with fear or anticipation Lily couldn’t tell.

She scanned the long table for anything that might have been left over from breakfast—a piece of biscuit, a saucer of cold tea—but it was bare; locusts couldn’t have stripped it any cleaner. A wave of fatigue and depression washed over her. And now Mrs. Howe was angry, would doubtless punish her with some tedious chore because she was late, and there was no plausible excuse she could give her.

The housekeeper’s suite was at the short end of the narrow, L-shaped corridor. Being summoned to it was reputedly a harrowing experience, something to be feared and dreaded. It had never happened to Lily, but it had happened to Norah Penglennan, a sixteen-year-old chambermaid who had been at Darkstone only a few months before Lily arrived. Below-stairs rumor had it that her crime was neglecting to change young Mr. Darkwell’s sheets on wash day. The fact that she’d fainted twice that day—from some undiagnosed condition—evidently did not figure in her defense. What went on between the girl and Mrs. Howe was never learned; Norah returned from the encounter trembling and white-faced, but she would not speak of it. A few days later she ran away.

I’m not afraid of Mrs. Howe,
Lily told herself as she walked down the corridor. She wasn’t hurrying along, though, she noticed; an impartial witness might even say she was dragging her feet. She sniffed and squared her shoulders. I’m not afraid of her because I’m not someone like Norah Penglennan, a poor, uneducated girl who can be intimidated by threats and harsh words from a petty despot. I am Lily Trehearne. My mother was a lady and my father was a gentleman. Most of the time. He had to work for a living, and a few of his occupations might not have been perfectly respectable in the strictest sense of the word. But he was gently reared and tolerably well educated, and to Lily’s knowledge he had never done anything dishonest.