Wayward One (14 page)

“I’m pleased for you and will give you my felicitations once that happy occasion occurs.” She took a sip of her tea, letting the girl absorb enough good intentions to breathe again. Sera never tired of the simple pleasure of tea. Taking it with heavy sugar and cream was one of her little vices, but she remembered too well the disappointment of going without as a child. “However, that day has not yet passed. Even if it had, the proper place for celebrations would not be in a spare bedroom of your master’s home.”

“Oh, Greta, you didn’t,” Mrs. Farley interjected.

“I did, ma’am.” She looked at Sera. “I’m so sorry, miss.”

“Apology accepted. You must remember that it seems to be men’s duty to lead us astray. They become caught by their animal urges to an extent that they forget the world around them.” Unbidden, a memory of Fletcher’s unclothed torso flashed to mind. He was a prime example of the fine and tempting line between man and animal. “It is our charge as the fairer sex to lead them back to the proper path.”

“Yes, miss.” Greta was beginning to sound a bit like a parrot who only knew a couple phrases, but she seemed sincere enough. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t, or you’ll be sent off without a reference.” Sera didn’t enjoy issuing such threats. The necessity far outweighed her discomfort. “You may leave now.”

Greta dipped a low curtsy and ran off as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.

Mrs. Farley stirred sugar in her tea, a contemplative expression drawing her mouth down. “I appreciate your compassion. Many women would have seen her dismissed immediately. Greta’s a good girl. I don’t think she’d do well on the streets.”

Those who didn’t receive a referral from their last position risked not being hired by any respectable household. “Make no mistake, even a hint she’s engaged in such behavior means I will sack her forthwith. I hoped a stern talking-to would be sufficient.”

“I’m sure your hope will be rewarded. I’ll speak to her again myself, once we’re through here.”

“Perhaps now you’ll feel more comfortable telling me how you came to work for Mr. Thomas.” Sera popped the tiny cake in her mouth, letting the sweetness roll over her tongue.

“Noticed my duck, did you?” Mrs. Farley said with a wry grimace. “Very well. Mr. Thomas had difficulty hiring a respectable housekeeper. I found myself in a position of need, as I’d been put out without a reference. I was only an upstairs maid, and my previous master took the title entirely too much to heart. I accepted Mr. Fletcher’s offer with gratitude.”

“I see.” Sera swirled her spoon in her cup, taking care not to clink against the sides with an uncouth lack of respect for the tissue-thin porcelain. “Why was Mr. Thomas having such problems filling it?”

Mrs. Farley’s decision to lie was displayed in her darting gaze and the way she bit the inside of her cheek. “Not many respectable housekeepers wish to venture into such an area to work.”

Sera made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. She stirred her tea again, then sipped. The silence dragged out into heavy threads. Mrs. Farley shifted in her seat, rearranged her plate and teacup. Switched them back again.

“Are you ready to tell me the truth of it now?”

Mrs. Farley blushed. “For a young miss, you’re rather persistent, aren’t you?”

Sera didn’t deign to answer such impertinence. It wasn’t advised to build friendships with the help, no matter that she believed they could have been great friends given other circumstances.

“There was unpleasant talk associated with the house,” said Mrs. Farley.

“Because of Mr. Thomas’s business activities? Or the furnishings?”

“No, none such. It was his partner, Mr. Raverst. He viewed the female staff, particularly the housekeepers, as his personal…hunting preserve, one could say.”

Shock became a roar in Sera’s ears. Fletcher never would have condoned such behavior, not when he so fiercely protected the child she’d been. Nor was she inclined to believe it of Mr. Raverst. He’d been unflinchingly kind to her mother. Sera had looked forward to the treats he brought her at every visit.

Surely a miscommunication poisoned the waters.

“And Mr. Thomas was aware of this?”

Mrs. Farley’s brows lowered as she considered. “Not as far as I can tell. He seemed truly bewildered when he interviewed me for the position. Oh, not that he evinced anything unmanly, but that he could discern no real answer as to why the previous housekeepers left.”

“You don’t seem the type to look the other way should a male try anything unacceptable.”

“I’m not. It so happens that going from an upstairs maid without references to being a housekeeper of a large, fine house leaves one with a sense of invincibility, however fleeting. I saw to him.” The satisfied smirk she wore implied that however she dealt with the situation had been pleasing.

“Did you?” Sera dropped her gaze to her tea. How depressing to learn one of the heroes from her childhood stomped with feet of clay. At least Fletcher seemed entirely capable of providing the shelter she so craved. “Do I wish to hear the details?”

Mrs. Farley plunked a rectangular piece of shortbread on her plate. “Likely not. A lady of your quality shouldn’t be exposed to such things.”

It appeared Sera fooled everyone. Only she knew the truly base nature of her origins and the impact that had on her—on the urges which must be restrained. Well, Fletcher knew too. The way she’d stared at him in his unclothed state had given her away.

No matter. She couldn’t afford to give rein to such impulses. Not ever.

She forced a smile and drew forth the tiny notebook she’d designated for household organization. “Now, shall we proceed with seeing to the rest of the household? I’d like to begin with something simple, such as the meals.”

Chapter Eleven

The arrival of a slip of correspondence should not lance tension down Fletcher’s spine. But flowery script and lack of a seal told him from whom it originated. Seraphina.

Though he dismissed his valet immediately, Fletcher found himself strangely reluctant to open the note. Another set of prosaic instructions on how to better himself or some such wasn’t what he needed from her. After all, such missives had heralded every morning for the past two weeks. The longer the paper stayed creased and closed, the longer he could pretend it held a carnal invitation to slip into her bedroom once shadows cloaked the world.

Alas, one couldn’t live in a fairy tale forever. Once dressed, Fletcher shook his head. He tried to exorcise the ridiculous. So he’d found a part of himself that reveled in its ability to create a haven for Sera. She didn’t seem to be of the same mind.

Indeed the note was informational, telling him that she had ordered dinner served at an hour early enough that he could continue on to business. She requested his presence. Formal dress would be required should he attend.

He’d gladly attend, especially if doing so meant the possibility of seeing Seraphina in a low-cut gown. Showing off her smooth, graceful shoulders would be enough. More than her day gowns, at least.

First, both duty and ambition required that he make it through the day. He woke late, since so much of his work demanded evening hours to match his clientele, but that left time yet to fill. He marched down to his office, meaning to sort through reams of correspondence—bills, requests for aid, an invitation to a club that sounded more like a whorehouse. After a while he realized he’d only moved a single sheet of paper in the last twenty minutes.

He was too busy listening to the noises in the hallway. Bustling, knocking and quite a bit of calling back and forth. The thick wood door muffled the voices so that he couldn’t tell what they were saying—no matter how hard he listened, nor how he tilted his head.

Finally unable to stand it any longer he threw open the door. One maid industriously dusted the decorations on a side table, while another held a rag and a pot of polish, scrubbing at the wainscoting. Both jumped to their feet and bobbed quick curtsies. Rough words about distracting him died in his throat.

He couldn’t particularly fault them for doing their jobs, now could he?

However, he wasn’t convinced they must do so in the hallway outside his office, while he attempted to ensure the gambling hall on Dean Street turned a profit.

Directing his displeasure at them would serve nothing. He knew to whom he needed to apply for rectification of this situation. “Where is Miss Miller?”

The maid with a smudge across her cheek bobbed another curtsy. He was fairly sure one didn’t curtsy multiple times in a single conversation. “She’s in the blue parlor, sir.”

“The blue parlor?”

“Yes, sir. The third door on the left from here.” She curtsied yet again.

Fletcher shook his head as he walked away. He was beginning to think he preferred the previous disastrous state of his staff to this ballocksed-up attempt. At least then he hadn’t needed to worry that his maids were clockwork automatons in disguise.

He could see why the maid called it the blue parlor. Royal blue curtains framed the windows and paler blue upholstered furniture was scattered through the room. Fat, overblown roses decorated the carpet’s dark blue background. Odd that he hadn’t noticed before. He’d always thought of it as “that other parlor.” Considering he didn’t use either very often, the distinction hadn’t seemed to matter.

A bustle of activity swarmed the room. Maids came and went, receiving instruction, while footmen carried random pieces of furniture and a few paintings. Seraphina stood in the middle, directing her troops with the aplomb of a general. A voluminous white apron swallowed up her slim curves, and a woven snood covered her hair.

She beamed when he stepped over the threshold. Absolutely beamed, pleasure of purpose putting a pink in her cheeks and lighting her brown eyes.

“Mr. Thomas, I’m glad you’ve joined us. I need to know in what manner of regard you keep these pieces.” She waved toward a stack of paintings slanted against the near wall. Small, large, in gilded frames or wood, they had all been piled with the same lack of care.

He tucked his thumb in his waistcoat. “I rightly couldn’t give a damn about any of them.”

“Please mind your language,” she admonished, but her heart didn’t seem in it.

Mrs. Farley presented a list. She and Sera bent their heads over it and conferred in voices too low to carry.

Beset by the very strange position of petitioning for attention in his own house, he rubbed the back of his neck. Begging for Seraphina’s attention in particular perturbed him. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course. I’ll have plenty of time when we dine. I plan to have the day wrapped up by six of the clock.” She looked up from the all-important list with a swift smile. “Though I’m sure this project will continue for several days.”

“No.” He’d been too long on his own to take direction from a snippet of a girl, no matter how tasty. “Now. I wish to speak with you now.”

Mrs. Farley stood straight and tucked the confounded list behind her back, as if it alone had put the harsh edge in his voice. Seraphina lacked the grace to be at all cowed.

Goddamn it, but he liked her more for it.

By all logical accounts, she shouldn’t be so self-assured, not when she’d been raised a foundling, nor when she occupied what most would consider a precarious position in his home. Without purpose beyond what he created for her.

Pride snaked warm strokes through him. He’d created that self-assurance. Built her. Given her the secure life from which she could grow. When she sat at his side, as his wife, she’d shine even brighter. Everything worth it.

“As you like,” Sera said. “Mrs. Farley, please see that things continue as planned.”

“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Farley clapped to gain attention, as if every servant in the room hadn’t frozen stock-still to stare. “Let’s move along. We’ve tasks to do and jobs to finish. See to them now.”

Everyone filed out, most stopping to drop curtsies or bob rough bows as they drew even with Fletcher. Every fiber in his body strung taut with the urge to snap at them all.

Finally, no one protected Seraphina. She spread her hands wide. “Here you have me. How can I help you?”

A loaded question, wasn’t that? So many possibilities. So many avenues one could venture down. Well-lit avenues where the pretty people milled or the dank. Dark alleys where he tried to confine his vices.

“You’ve turned this place upside down.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

Artistic goods stacked precariously high on a large table. Bell jars, small statues and piles of books layered the tabletop. He flicked open the cover of one unnamed book.
Tristan and Isolde, A Love Story
curved across the title page. Nothing remarkable about that. Good society long celebrated Tristan as the example of chivalric love—the poor sap. Why the poor book had been singled out became unfathomable.

“You failed to inform me of your schedule,” he said.

“Perhaps if you had responded to any of my requests for your time, you’d have known it.” Her little hands curled into fists for the briefest moment and just as quickly released. She steepled her fingers together instead.

“I’ll be at dinner this night.” He leaned a hip against the table, only to topple a small porcelain figure. He scooped it up without looking at it. “As you requested.”