Listen to the Moon

When upstairs valet meets downstairs maid, the line between work and play blurs.

Lively St. Lemeston
, Book 3

John Toogood dreamed of being valet to a great man…before he was laid off and blacklisted. Now he’s stuck in small-town Lively St. Lemeston until London’s Season opens and he can begin his embarrassing job hunt.

His instant attraction to happy-go-lucky maid Sukey Grimes couldn’t come at a worse time. Her manners are provincial, her respect for authority nonexistent, and her outdated cleaning methods—well, the less said about them, the better.

Behind John’s austere façade, Sukey catches tantalizing glimpses of a lonely man with a gift for laughter. Yet her heart warns her not to fall for a man with one foot out the door, no matter how devastating his kiss.

Then he lands a butler job in town—but there’s a catch. His employer, the vicar, insists Toogood be respectably married. Against both their better judgments, he and Sukey come to an arrangement. But the knot is barely tied when Sukey realizes she underestimated just how vexing it can be to be married to the boss…

Warning: Contains a butler with a protective streak a mile wide, and a maid who enjoys messing up the bed a whole lot more than making it.

Listen to the Moon

Rose Lerner

Dedication

For Sonia

Let us share in joy and care

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank Anne Scott, my editor, for helping my books live up to their potential, and everyone at Samhain for making them shine. Thank you to Kim Killion for another stunning, emotional cover. Thank you to my agent Kevan Lyon for being a rock, as always.

Thank you once again to the world’s greatest critique partners, the Demimondaines: Alyssa Everett, Charlotte Russell, Vonnie Hughes and especially Susanna Fraser. Your support and insight make all the difference.

Thank you to my beloved and brilliant friends and first readers: Kate Addison, Tiffany Ruzicki, Greg Holt, Kim Runciman and Olivia Waite. (A bunch of you even read the first act
twice
, because you are angels!) Kim, you were the first person to want a Toogood book, back when you first read
Sweet Disorder
. Thank you. (I believe our initial concept was 007!Toogood but some ideas are too good for this world.)

And thank you to Marisha Banerji and Rukmini Pande for taking a look at Mrs. Khaleel’s scenes. She’s my first major Indian character and I appreciate you helping me do right by her! Any remaining errors of fact or judgment are of course all my own.

I want to thank my family, for always being excited about my work.

And finally and forever, thank you to Sonia for being willing to talk about this book more than any book should ever be talked about. <3

Chapter One

November 14, 1812

Lively St. Lemeston, West Sussex

Sukey Grimes, maid-of-all-work, gave the chipped mantel a last pass with her duster. Empty of furniture, the two attic rooms looked nearly a decent size. But on a rainy day like this, nothing could hide the leak in the roof. The boards in the ceiling swelled and rotted, and water dripped into a cast-iron pot with a constant
plip plip plip
.

Someone knocked.

“Mrs. Dymond, is that you?” Sukey called. “I’ve been over these rooms, and if your sister happens to be missing a hairpin with a lovely rosette on it, I simply can’t
imagine
where it could have got to.” She pulled the pin from her hair and held it out as she opened the door.

It wasn’t Phoebe Dymond, former lodger in these rooms, or her new husband Nicholas Dymond either. It was a very tall, very well dressed, very—“handsome” wasn’t in it. Oh, he was
handsome; there weren’t any bones to be made about that. But handsome was ten for a penny. This man had
character
. His jaw might have been hewn from oak, and his nose jutted forward, too large on someone else’s face but perfect on his. His warm, light-brown eyes stared right into her, or would have if he’d seemed the slightest bit interested in her.

He glanced down at the hairpin, lips thinning. His eyebrows drew together, one bumping slightly up at the side. The tiny, disapproving shift brought the deep lines of his face into sharp relief.

Oof.
He as good as knocked the breath out of her, didn’t he? “I’m that sorry, sir, I thought you were somebody else.” She tucked the pin back into her hair with relief. Mrs. Dymond’s little sister had made the rosette from a scrap of red ribbon that showed to advantage in Sukey’s brown hair. “Are you here about the rooms for let? They come with a bed,” she said encouragingly, quite as if the mattress had been restuffed in the last half a decade.

The eyebrows went up together this time. “I am Mr. Toogood. Mr. Dymond’s valet.” The calm, quiet growl of his voice knocked the breath out of her too. Deep and powerful, it was made for loudness, even if he kept it leashed. Tamed, he probably thought, but Sukey didn’t think you
could
tame a voice like that, only starve it into temporary submission.

She wondered what Mr. Toogood would sound like tangled with a woman in that lumpy bed. Were bitten-off growls all he’d allow himself there as well? She’d never find out—she had never tangled herself up with any man yet, and never planned to—but it was nice to think about nevertheless.

Tardily, her brain caught up with her ears. “Not anymore, are you? Or you’d know not to look for him here.” She didn’t expect Mr. Dymond could afford a valet now he’d married beneath him.

Mr. Toogood didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked more calmly superior than before. “No, not anymore, that’s correct. Can you tell me where I might find the Dymonds?” That voice rubbed up and down her spine.

She made a show of considering. “I don’t know as I’d ought to tell you. How am I to be sure you are who you say you are?”

To her surprise, his lips twitched. He pulled a card out of his pocket.
John Toogood,
it read.
Gentleman’s Gentleman.
His own card! Upper servants were another species, right enough.

She pocketed the card to show the maid next door. “Oh, that don’t prove a thing. Anybody can have cards printed.”

His lips curved, the lines between his nose and the corners of his mouth deepening in a very pleasant way. “And anybody can sweep a floor thoroughly, but I don’t accuse
you
of doing it.”

She laughed, startled. “You’d better not. I don’t like having false rumors spread about me.” So she’d missed some spots in the corners. Who cared? Mrs. Dymond wasn’t paying her to clean this attic anymore. She’d done it out of the goodness of her heart, and to help lure a new tenant. Old Mrs. Pengilly, who owned the house, didn’t seem in any rush about that, but Sukey needed the money.

She eyed Mr. Toogood. “
You
must need a place to stay now you’re out of work.”

He looked about the room. “I don’t plan to be out of work for long.”

“Nobody does.” He was too tall for the place. He’d hit his head on the eaves dunnamany times a day. Sukey didn’t say so.

“I don’t need anything so large.”

She smothered a laugh. “It’s cheap. On account of the leaky roof. And Mrs. Pengilly might give you credit for furnishings, if you engaged to leave them here when you go.”

“And what is your interest in the matter?”

She grinned at him. “It’ll cost you threepence a week to have me clean and cook for a bit Friday and Saturday afternoons.”

“I see. Are you a good cook?”

“I’m not
bad
.”

He sighed. “If you give me the Dymonds’ direction, I’ll stop by again this afternoon to speak with…Mrs. Pengilly, I believe you said?”

* * *

Mr. Dymond surveyed his Cuenca carpet as if it could tell him what to say. This gave John Toogood, gentleman’s gentleman, ample opportunity to observe that his former master’s hair was growing far too long, that he had been consistently failing to shave a spot under his left ear, and that his cuffs were ink-stained. He did not dare look about the room.

“My mother’s refused to find you another position, hasn’t she?”

John kept his hands folded behind his back. “I wouldn’t say ‘refused’, sir. She has not replied to my letter. Naturally the weeks after an election are a very busy time for her ladyship.”

They both knew that Mr. Dymond’s mother, the influential Countess of Tassell, never neglected any correspondence unless she meant to.

“I’m so sorry, Toogood,” Mr. Dymond said. “I never expected this. I was sorry to have to let you go, but it never occurred to me that Mother would put you on the black list. You’re bound to find another place, even so. You’re an exceptional valet.”

“Thank you, sir. Please do not apologize. I would not have troubled you in the first weeks of your marriage, had I not hoped for a letter of reference.”

“Of course.” Mr. Dymond went at once to a writing table and exchanged his cane for a pen. It became clear as he wrote that the pen needed mending.

John clasped his hands tighter together so as not to reach for the pen-knife. He wasn’t looking forward to going about town, hat in hand, asking for work. He’d never done it before, having worked for the Dymonds all his life.

He hadn’t even been Mr. Dymond’s valet anymore. For the past four years, John had worked for his elder brother Stephen, Lord Lenfield, who sat for Sussex in the House of Commons.

But when Mr. Dymond sold his commission after a serious injury, the Tassells had judged a stranger’s care too much for their son’s nerves. The countess had asked John to serve him through his convalescence as a particular favor. She’d promised both John and Lord Lenfield that they’d be reunited in a matter of months.

Few politicians, asked what smoothed a man’s way in government, would mention a close shave, clean linen and polished boots. Yet those things took subtle root in the minds of others, hinting softly,
This is a fellow worthy of respect, who knows how things ought to be done.
Lord Lenfield would be a great man someday, and John had thought to help him in his rise to greatness.

That was before Mr. Dymond married a poor widow and broke all ties with his mother.

Now the most glowing letter of reference wouldn’t help John if the angry countess had really put him on a black list among her acquaintances. He had few connections outside that circle, and no man in it would alienate powerful people like the Earl and Countess of Tassell merely for an improvement—however marked—in his comfort, appearance and mode of dress.

And by the time Society trickled back to London for the opening of the new Parliament in a few weeks, news of Mr. Dymond’s fall from grace would be through the entire
ton
like wildfire. Everyone would know John had been dismissed from the family’s employ.

Unless he was minded to work for a Tory, which he wasn’t, he’d have to seek a position among strangers who cared nothing for politics.

No, John wasn’t pleased about the current turn of events. But unlike Mr. Dymond, it had occurred to him that the countess might punish him for failing to warn her of her son’s inappropriate attachment. He’d done it anyway, and he regretted nothing. He would just have to venture into new spheres of greatness.

It came to him with a sinking feeling that many distinguished professions were famed for inattention to dress. Might neat attire even hamper the career of a scholar or man of science, raising suspicions that he couldn’t be so brilliant as all that?

Mr. Dymond sanded his letter. “Stephen will stop in Lively St. Lemeston on his way to London. Mother wants him to make me forgive her. Maybe if you talked to him…”

John had written to Lord Lenfield already and received no answer to that letter either. His lordship would never rehire his valet against his mother’s wishes, but a personal appeal might persuade him to help John find a position elsewhere. “Thank you, sir. If you might tell me when you expect him?”

“If you give me your direction, I’ll ask him to come and see you.”

Heat crept up the back of John’s neck. He wasn’t sure why this should be embarrassing, but he was embarrassed nonetheless as he said blandly, “I was thinking of letting your wife’s old rooms, as it happens.”

Mr. Dymond blinked. “Can you afford them?”

John (when employed) likely earned twice what the new Mrs. Dymond did with her pen. But Mr. Dymond saw only that he was a servant and she was a respectable lawyer’s daughter. “I have a little money put by. And I am told the rooms are cheap, on account of the leaky roof.” Told by that puckish maidservant, who didn’t clean worth a damn and had a retroussé nose and pale blue eyes tip-tilted like a cat’s.

That wasn’t why he was taking the rooms. She was too young for him, and besides, the last thing he wanted was more scandal. Which there’d be if he was kicked out of lodgings for making advances to the maid. Or debauching her.

An image of her—naked, tossing back her unbound hair as she straddled him with a sly half-smile—appeared with startling speed and had an equally startling effect on him, though fortunately not to a degree visible to Mr. Dymond.

On reflection, John supposed it was only natural. While no Lothario, he enjoyed the company of women, both in and out of bed. He’d been accustomed to a healthy dose of it, living in London or traveling with Lord Lenfield to house parties that were nearly as convivial for the servants as their masters. Now for months he’d slept within call of a convalescent who barely left his rooms. There’d been few chances even to take himself in hand.

Lively St. Lemeston was full of women. He’d find someone older and more discreet.

Mr. Dymond nodded. “Be careful of the eaves. I’ve cracked my head on them more than once.”

John grimaced. He was at least three inches taller than his former master. “Thank you for the warning, sir. Pardon me—” Unable to resist any longer, he reached out to tighten the uneven knot of Mr. Dymond’s cravat. Their eyes met for a moment before John dropped his respectfully.

“I’ll write to some of my school friends and see if any of them are looking for a valet,” Mr. Dymond blurted out. “I really am sorry. If you ever need anything, you must come to me.”

I’m richer than you are now,
John thought. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”

* * *

John held up three fingers. “And a few pieces of mace, if you will.”

The North African peddler raised his tin spoon hopefully.

“Not spoonfuls. Three
pieces
.” He pointed at the dry, lacy husks that had once tightly cradled nutmeg seeds.

With a sigh, the peddler wrapped three husks in a square of thin paper. “Two pennies and a farthing.”

“Good morning, John Toogood, gentleman’s gentleman,” a voice said behind him. It took him a moment to place it. “How d’you do?”

John made himself count out the coins, tuck the mace into his pocket with his other purchases, and thank the peddler before turning to face his new maid-of-all-work. He hadn’t seen her in the handful of days since he’d let his new rooms. It developed that she lived in at the boarding house just across the street, and came by two days out of the seven. Mrs. Pengilly had represented it as a blessed economy for both houses, and John had hidden his disappointment.

The young woman was even prettier outdoors, pale face reflecting the gray autumn daylight and brown hair soaking it in. In her drab bonnet, gray gown and dark pelisse, she suggested an apparition glimpsed and gone, a fleeting impression of dark and light a man might spend his whole life trying to prove he’d seen.

“Very well, and yourself?”

“Pretty tightish.” She carried a basket full of market produce over one arm, and a cabbage and two parcels under the other. The basket was a third her height, and two or three times her width. “Fresh vegetables make my cooking eenamost good. Mind you, don’t listen to Madge Cattermole if she tells you her winter broccoli are the best. Tories will say anything. Mrs. Isted’s are just as good, and her carrots are sweeter.” She indicated the stall with a jerk of her shoulder.

“Eenamost” was a contraction of “even-almost”, used by uneducated Sussex folk to mean “nearly”.
I could teach you to speak better,
he thought, and was promptly ashamed of it. Elocution lessons would help her to work in a great house, but not everyone wanted that. She seemed content where she was. “Thank you. I’m quite fond of pickled carrots.”

“Brine all the flavor out of them, why don’t you?”

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Mary by any chance, would it?”

Her eyebrows were short and flyaway, set wide enough not to touch the bridge of her nose when she frowned in puzzlement. With her pointed chin, they made her face seem not even heart-shaped, but outright triangular.

Then her mouth, already a touch crooked in repose, curled into a twisted half-smile so engaging as to seem a carnal invitation. “Because I’m contrary, you mean? I suppose I am, at that. But I was baptized Susan Grimes. Everybody calls me Sukey.”