Wayward One (13 page)

A chilly finger of dread traced over Fletcher’s neck. “Of course it was. You were the one who told me what a problem Pa had with the devil’s smoke.”

Until Rick had confessed his knowledge, Fletcher hadn’t even the slightest idea. Oh, he’d known that his father indulged now and then, when his ferocious taste for liquor didn’t seem to hold the demons at bay. He hadn’t known his father spent the dawn floating in an opium haze in order to sleep. Perhaps he’d wanted to protect Fletcher from at least that much knowledge.

In a sick way, it had warmed his soul. After all the decadence his father hadn’t hesitated to throw him at, after the orgies and the drinking binges and the knee breaking, there had been some little thing his Pa had thought too much.

Rick shifted uncomfortably. His gaze flicked about. “I might’ve exaggerated a bit.”

Fletcher set the glass of brandy on a side table, worried the sloshing liquid would give away the trembling in his fingers. “Why would you do that?”

“You were young.” Rick sat up straight. His shoulders drew back into a proud line. “You were young and you were headstrong. They were dead anyhow. We didn’t have time to mess about with revenge or the whole empire would have collapsed around us.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about this fucking empire.” Fletcher didn’t only run cold, he became ice. Remote and frozen. “What in bloody hell happened?”

“Your pa smoked now and then, that much is true.” Rick laced his fingers together on the desk. He looked more in place there than Fletcher felt, much preferring the desk in his study at home. “But he knew how to turn it off. He didn’t smoke to insensibility, not ever. If he were to, he certainly wouldn’t do it with that trollop.”

“Seraphina’s mother,” Fletcher said in a dead voice. “Aggie.”

“Aye, her. He’d kicked her out the last time for stealing from him. He weren’t about to be getting knackered with her hangin’ about.” The more upset Rick became, the more his speech slurred into the back-alley roughness. “Not going ta’ leave her the opportunity to nick nothing else from him.”

“What are you insinuating happened?”

Sadness overtook the other man. His mouth pulled into a frown. He shook his head mournfully. “That I don’t know. What I
do
know is that it can’t be safe to keep the tart’s daughter around.”

“Seraphina?” Fletcher laughed, a harsh thing that scraped his throat and had nothing to do with humor—more surprise and disbelief. “Whatever the sins of the mother, Seraphina is far removed from them. She wasn’t quite eleven at the time my father died.”

“Aye, but she’s got the same head-turning power for Thomas men, it seems. Why else did Mac take that bit of fluff back after four long years? Or did you have some other reason for being late? For a household
contretemps
.” He sneered the last word.

“While it involved her, it wasn’t her fault. Someone destroyed her room and her belongings.” If anything, the afternoon’s events only intensified his wish to keep her sheltered. The memory of her mother would be no further tarnished under his watchful eye.

“Did they?” Rick’s blue eyes gleamed with speculation. “It’s not inconceivable she made the mess on her own and blamed a specter.”

“To what purpose?” Fletcher shook off the baseless accusation. Seraphina was a lady, not a high-strung chambermaid to cause trouble for no reason. His fist curled, but he held it out of sight. “Let’s move on. The profit margins on last week’s boxing match were fifteen percent below normal.”

Rick’s brows lowered, but he seemed willing enough to accept the change in subject. “We’ve reason to believe another bookie’s moved into the area. He specializes in the toffs.”

Of course he did. Fletcher bit back a sigh. Everything in his life had become a matter of the aristos versus the regular people. He’d be damned if he even knew why he wanted to go legitimate. Jumping through hoops was not his style. The shortest way to the answer was the one he took.

Turning his entire world flip-side up had to be one of the hardest bloody things he’d ever done. But the straight and narrow would be plenty worth it when he could keep Seraphina by his side. Permanently.

Chapter Ten

The morning room Sera discovered suffered from the same overabundance of sensual decoration. A painting of an alluringly plump woman lounging semi-nude on a chaise, with only a few strategic lengths of fabric protecting her modesty, hung on the wall. On a glass-topped table she found displays of old manuscripts. Leaning closer meant holding back her skirts so they didn’t brush the spindly legs of the table and dislodge everything. Since the handwritten words were close set in a spidery script, their true nature required intent investigation to discover.

Folding her hands behind her back to avoid the temptation of touching the yellowing pages, she bent at the waist for a closer look. On first seeing the names Tristan and Isolde, a rush of reassurance flooded her. Perhaps not everything in this household was scandalous.

Then Tristan lifted Isolde’s hem and kissed her delicate ankle. And kept moving higher.

Sera straightened immediately and moved away from the heresy. Tristan and Isolde had been the apotheosis of chaste, tragic love. To see them defamed so was…awful. Surely awful. The tightness in her belly and the shocked weakness of her limbs attested to her horror.

She eased to a seat at the small writing desk, the reason she’d chosen this room for her first meeting with Mrs. Farley. The older woman would arrive any moment, and Sera needed to get a hold of herself.

A tendril of hair slipped free of its moorings to tickle the tip of her ear before she smoothed it back. Dressing her hair for the morning would have been easier with the correct ribbon to match the dress. The pink edging and sash over the pale gray flounces of the skirt demanded a pink hair tie as accompaniment, also known as the one Fletcher had stuck in his pocket.

The memory of his wicked arrogance easily banished the thought of asking for the ribbon’s return. She’d need to buy more, though she didn’t have access to spending money. Her pin money had been held by Mrs. Waywroth, and with Sera’s departure from the academy, her access had fled as well. She wouldn’t contact the woman she so respected and explain that she was living in a man’s home, even with the kind, elderly Mrs. Viers having been established in an upstairs bedroom.

Asking Fletcher for a few pounds was also an impossibility. He’d take the opening to settle some ridiculous amount of money on her, and she’d be in the same situation she’d hoped to avoid—indebted to him.

Drawing forth a clean sheet of paper and a fresh pen, she scratched out a list of everything that needed done with the house. The erotic art must be disposed of, or at the very least restrained to the private rooms, so Fletcher could invite the earl and his wife with impunity. Though word through the
ton
implied that Lady Linsley’s appreciation of all art meant she would not mind, proof of such items would solidify Fletcher’s reputation as wild and reckless. He couldn’t claim the same leeway as lords with generations of blue blood and breeding.

The entire staff would need to be motivated to a new level of efficiency. Sera slipped her tiny watch from its pocket at her waist and consulted the time. Mrs. Farley was already five minutes late.

Sera tapped the pen against her lips as she considered the task before her. She might be forced to see Fletcher’s places of business. The same tendency toward unacceptability would mean something might need to be done about them. Not the front rooms, with drinking and gambling and…whoring, but any private offices in the rear. He must evince a staid morality that implied he was only maintaining such businesses until the time when another option became available.

Mrs. Farley appeared in the doorway. She dropped an awkward curtsy. Her harried movements carried a slight tinge of frazzle as she brushed at a coal smudge. “I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Miller. The coal delivery came and then they said they deposited the entire amount when it was obvious they hadn’t. I won’t stand for merchants who don’t deal fairly.”

Sera held up a hand. “Please. It’s quite all right. Have a seat.”

“These new merchants are an unscrupulous breed. You’ve got to keep an eye on them at all times, or they’d skin you for every penny.”

“While I agree, you must try to calm yourself.” Sera pushed aside her list and folded her hands on the polished tabletop. “It’s imperative that you remember the staff takes the tone of their duties from you, as well as the actual tasks.”

The other woman shook her head then smoothed a hand over her hair. Only a few strands of silver wove through what was otherwise a rich brown. Faint lines around her eyes took nothing away from her attractive features, including large dark eyes and a pink rosebud mouth. Sera wondered how such a woman had come to be a housekeeper for a large home at such a relatively young age. Though she seemed well intentioned, she didn’t possess the stern demeanor usually required.

Theoretically Fletcher could have installed the woman in his home for ease of access. If Mrs. Farley were his mistress, either currently or at some past date, it might explain his willingness to overlook her lack of qualifications. An uncomfortably loud chant of jealousy took up residence in Sera’s head, momentarily flickering with the image of Fletcher kissing this woman. They were of an age, and it didn’t seem inconceivable. His blond head bent over her dark one…

Worse than that, Mrs. Farley’s dark hair somehow metamorphosed into her own. The cheeks Fletcher cupped became hers. She could feel the phantom touch over her jaw.

Ridiculous. She folded her fingers together until her knuckles sprung white.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, miss,” Mrs. Farley said.

“You must think of the staff as pupils and yourself as their instructor. If you are frantic and frazzled, they’ll believe an overabundance of emotion is acceptable. If you demonstrate a calm implacability, they will do their best to emulate you.”

Chagrin bent Mrs. Farley’s mouth into a rueful smile. “I see. Thank you for the instruction. I must confess that sometimes I feel I’m not suitable to this position.”

Sera could sing praise to the heavens that she’d been given such an opening. “How did you come to work for Mr. Thomas?”

A tiny hint of amusement rounded Mrs. Farley’s cheeks. “That’s not what you mean to ask. You wish to know how I’m in the housekeeper’s position.”

“I am found out.”

The door opened, and the red-haired maid appeared, pushing a brass cart loaded with porcelain plates and a teapot prettily enameled with purple irises. The girl kept her gaze carefully trained on the ebony push handle. Her clothing was entirely more orderly today, leaving Sera relieved to see no hint of wayward behavior. No telltale dampness around her mouth or a tender swelling.

“I hope I wasn’t overstepping my bounds, Miss Miller, but I ordered Greta to bring us a light repast.” Mrs. Farley handled the teapot with aplomb, pouring with grace. “I’m terribly sorry your first day here was as such, and I wished to show you that we’re perfectly capable of doing better.”

“You’ve achieved your goal admirably.” The cart was piled with delicate sponge cakes and biscuits, each one of them like tiny works of art. Sera accepted a beautiful piece of cake individually iced with a miniscule pink bow. Greta managed to serve the treat without once looking at Sera.

“While I know presenting you with a pretty meal is by no means sufficient considering the awful things done to your belongings yesterday, I’m pleased to hear it.” Mrs. Farley graced Greta with a little smile. “You may go now.”

One hand gathering the side of her skirts, Greta turned, obviously ready to flee.

“A moment,” Sera said, keeping her voice calm.

Mrs. Farley’s brows knit in obvious confusion, but she didn’t dare contradict someone who’d been given Fletcher’s full authority.

Truly, Sera wanted to laugh simply as an outlet for the awkwardness of the situation. Mrs. Waywroth had bestowed copious advice on guiding servants to the moral path, as they usually hadn’t benefitted from the guidance of the upper classes. Not one word of it had included what to do if the mistress caught a servant
in flagrante delicto.

Greta froze. The poor girl was trembling, all the way to the tips of her curls, a few of which had sprung free from the otherwise tidy coil at her neck. “Yes, miss?” she squeaked.

“I’m sure you understand that what I witnessed the other day was beyond the pale.”

“Yes, miss.” Her big blue eyes turned down to inspect her black boots, but her entire countenance flared as red as a Cardinal’s robes.

“Upon meeting you, I find myself surprised. You seem an entirely more moral girl than the type of strumpet who would…do such.” Sera was running out of euphemisms to describe the act.

Greta’s eyes were swimming with tears. “I am, miss, I promise. I’m a good girl. I lived in the country my whole life. It’s only…” She looked at Mrs. Farley and quickly dropped her gaze again.

Sera picked up her teacup and pinched her fingers over the delicate handle, the better to occupy her hands. “It’s only what, Greta? Come now. You don’t know me yet, but I promise you will come to trust me.”

“Me and James are in love.” The quiet, assured way she delivered the confidence went halfway toward convincing Sera. “We’ll be married as soon as we can afford it. As near as we can tell that’ll be a ways off.”