A Well Pleasured Lady Page 2

  “Good heavens, Sebastian, I already told her we knew, and I’m glad I did.” Lady Valéry sounded stern. “You frightened her half to death.”

  Using her most sensible tone, she replied, “I was only startled, ma’am. You have a most aggressive attitude, Lord Whitfield.”

  Lord Whitfield rocked back as if amazed by her accusation, but his faint, mocking smile let her know she hadn’t fooled him. “I have a most aggressive curiosity, Miss Fairchild.”

  Chilled, she wondered—how much did he remember of those long-ago events?

  “So you do, Sebastian.” Lady Valéry’s plucked brows rose in delicate inquiry. “Do you expect me to put that cream in my tea now?”

  “Her hand is clean.” Lord Whitfield lifted Mary’s wrist and used his handkerchief to wipe the white film off her finger. “It feels better now, doesn’t it?”

  Mary hated to admit it, but the pain had almost vanished. “Yes, thank you, sir.” She wanted away from him. He stood so close, his legs brushed her substantial skirt, pressing her petticoats against her legs, and he took up all the air to breathe. That had to account for the faint ache in her lungs, that sensation of constriction in her throat.

  She didn’t want to ask the question, but she knew she must, and vigilantly she framed the words. “Have we met?”

  “I knew your father.”

  He hadn’t answered her question, but Mary’s nerve failed her. Was it possible he hadn’t recognized her, or was he toying with her? She wanted to peer into his mind, and at the same time shied away. She wanted to interrogate him, and at the same time feared his responses.

  She wanted to run.

  She wanted out of this room, and she said, “If I may, I’ll return to the kitchen and fetch a fresh tray.”

  “No, you may not. You’ll sit down right there and tell me what you’re doing in Scotland.”

  His deep, slow, soft tones brought forth rough emotions she thought long buffed away, but she displayed her thoughts and feelings for no one. She simply stood, one hand limp at her side, one hand allowing his brisk ministrations.

  “You’d better sit,” Lady Valéry said. “Sebastian is not easily refused.”

  Lord Whitfield tossed his limp white handkerchief onto the tea tray where it immediately soaked to a soggy brown.

  Mary glanced toward the farthest stool in the dimmest corner, but Lord Whitfield pointed at the chair that faced the fireplace. “No, girl, sit there.”

  A good housekeeper does as instructed.

  Her rigid corset would keep her from wilting beneath his interrogation, and vigorous self-training kept her spine from touching the chairback.

  Lady Valéry, she was distressed to see, concealed a smile behind her fan.

  “Look at me, girl,” Lord Whitfield instructed. “I want to see your face.”

  The trouble with that, of course, was that she would have to see his face, too. But a good housekeeper keeps the guests happy.

  Lifting her head, she stared straight at him and refused to let him intimidate her. Of course, it could have been easier. He stood when she sat. He observed her closely when she much preferred to be invisible. He blocked warmth and light with his mere presence.

  “Yes, you are Charles Fairchild’s daughter,” he said with evident satisfaction. “You have his look—except he never eyed anyone so coldly. Where did you learn that trick?”

  She thought of several replies, all impertinent, and discarded them.

  Somehow Lord Whitfield must have known, and his voice grew gentler. “Want to tell me to knock off, do you? Well, you can’t, you’re the housekeeper. What’s your name?”

  In as courteous a tone as she could manage, she said, “Mary Fairchild, at your service.”

  “Miss Guinevere Mary Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield corrected. “It is still ‘Miss,’ isn’t it? You haven’t wed as an escape from this onerous position, have you?”

  “It is not onerous at all.” Mary spared a smile for Lady Valéry. “I’m honored and grateful—”

  But Lady Valéry interrupted. “I told you not to use that word. You’re not to be grateful to me.”

  “I treasure your kindness, then,” Mary answered.

  “You’ve more than repaid me.” Lady Valéry’s long nostrils pinched, her eyelids drooped, but beneath the leathery skin, Mary could see a resonant beauty still. “Do you think I don’t know how many of my guests have tried to steal your services? Just last month my own sister tried to bribe you into returning with her to England.”

  How had Lady Valéry found out? Mary wondered. She frequently seemed omniscient, but she had never inquired about the events that had driven Mary to Scotland. That, more than anything else, explained Mary’s unwavering devotion. “I have no wish to work for anyone else.”

  Lady Valéry opened the drapes, glancing out the large windows at the last swirl of fog to be seen before night fell over the Scottish Lowlands. Leaning closer to the fire, she spread her veined hands. “It would be warmer in England.”

  Warmer? Yes, they’d burn Guinevere Mary Fairchild alive in England.

  Lord Whitfield smiled again, gloating as if he scented vulnerability. “Charlie was always loyal, too.”

  He still watched her with that unnerving stare, but Mary was thankful that he’d changed the subject. In her own way, Lady Valéry was as stubborn as Mary.

  “But a wastrel, of course.” Lord Whitfield sighed as if in sympathy. “He left you penniless, didn’t he?”

  Abruptly, mightily furious, Mary rose to her feet in one smooth movement and started toward the door.

  She didn’t know why she was angry. Men had said worse things to her in her tenure as housekeeper. But this man with his judgmental air grated, and she lost her valued self-discipline.

  Then his arm wrapped around her waist and he spun her so she faced Lady Valéry.

  Mary got the impression Lady Valéry’s interest verged on voyeuristic.

  Then Lord Whitfield adjusted Mary, fitting them like two spoons in her own well-kept silverware drawer, and all else fled her mind. No one had dared hold the grande dame of housewifery for years upon years.

  Did he understand what he dared? Did he realize the impact of one strong male body against her flesh where only the winds of desolation had swept? She wanted to strike out at him, to box his ears or pull his hair, anything to make him feel the pain of the constant, bone-chilling loneliness she’d accustomed herself to.

  And learned to live with.

  He spoke in her ear, and the warmth of his breath intruded on her, too. “Too much pride, too, just like Charlie.”

  She shuddered. How dared she even contemplate the ache of her isolation? She was the housekeeper, a nobody…a murderess. And of all the people in the world, she had to allow this man every liberty he desired.

  His hands moved slowly away from her, releasing her with the care of a parent who any moment expected his toddler to flee into the arms of danger. Just as slowly, she stepped away.

  He was looking at her. She could feel his gaze almost as clearly as she had felt his grip. Her skin still burned. Her bones still ached. Tears pressed against the back of her eyes, and if she returned his gaze, she feared he would detect them.

  Instead, walking on wobbly feet, she navigated the short distance to her chair. She wouldn’t rise again. She was a fast learner, and that brief contact had taught her she didn’t want Lord Whitfield touching her.

  He seated himself. His fingers templed before his chest and his elbows rested on the arms of the chair while he studied her.

  Apparently, chasing women and subduing them was nothing unusual for him. She wanted to lift her hands and check her strictly restrained hair to see if tendrils had escaped. She wanted to rub her finger, which still stung, and the places where he’d touched her, which still throbbed from his oppressive hold.

  But she didn’t. A housekeeper didn’t fidget—especially when a man was about to destroy everything she’d worked to build. “How did you know my father?”<
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  “We were neighbors once,” Lord Whitfield said. “And he was kind to me.”

  Kind? Yes, that described her father perfectly. He was also loyal and proud and a wastrel, just as Lord Whitfield had said. She’d loved her father, worshiped him, and in his joyous, thoughtless way he’d infected her with his philosophies and ruined her life.

  She didn’t like to remember her father.

  “You are the stillest woman I’ve ever met.” Lord Whitfield studied her more, drawing her into the clasp of his gaze. “I wonder why.”

  Because the hunted always take refuge in stillness. Mary fought dueling urges—she wanted to close her eyes against him. At the same time she needed to watch him. Without moving, he seemed to be circling her, looking for a vulnerable spot to attack.

  “And silent, too.” He tapped his fingertips together as if in thought. Turning to his godmother, he asked, “Discreet?”

  “Very.” Lady Valéry no longer smiled behind her fan. She no longer smiled at all, and Mary began to sense the earnestness of Lord Whitfield’s intent. Of Lady Valéry’s intent, also?

  In deference to Lady Valéry’s serious demeanor—surely she wasn’t curious on her own behalf—Mary asked, “What help could Charles Fairchild’s daughter render to you, Lord Whitfield?”

  He said, “There is a lady, a very beautiful, intelligent lady, who was the mistress of several of our revered government leaders. She had a great deal of influence on them, which she used wisely, but unwisely, she recorded all in her diary.”

  Mary found her attention straying from him to Lady Valéry. A half smile hovered around her mouth, lighting, then flitting away like a butterfly.

  “The diary was stolen by those who wish to use it for ill, and in the process the beautiful lady will be harmed.”

  A combination of dread and inevitability mixed in Mary, and she wanted to scream at him to get to the point.

  But a housekeeper never shows impatience.

  “The beautiful lady could pay money to these scurrilous rogues and they promise they will return the diary, but she fears—and I agree—that that is unlikely. Yet if she doesn’t pay, the diary will be published, and with it her chance for discretion and anonymity.”

  The room was silent except for the crackle of the flames. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, and Mary thought incongruously that she must have the chimney cleaned. Carefully she avoided the realization that made her stomach twist in dismay. The realization that the diary Lord Whitfield sought was…

  She looked straight at Lady Valéry. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  It was only a whisper of sound, but to Mary it cracked like the closing of irons around her wrists. For Lady Valéry, she would do anything.

  As she struggled to retain her composure, to remain for this time, at least, the calm and efficient Mary Rottenson, Lady Valéry made her way to the door. Opening it, she spoke to Tremayne. Returning, she seated herself as calmly as if she hadn’t just given another direct order and circumvented the chain of command Mary had so carefully set into place.

  When had Mary’s life careened out of control? She stared directly at Lord Whitfield, blaming him. “This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale to me.” Her voice cracked. “One in which danger looms.”

  “Yes,” Lord Whitfield admitted. “But the publication of such a tale will shake the very foundation of the government. Since the French have beheaded their king, we fear a similar uprising in England.”

  “French barbarians,” Lady Valéry exclaimed in disgust. “They made poor King Louis pay for the sins of his fathers.”

  “It is a bloodbath over there.” Lord Whitfield faced Mary squarely. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the tales of whole families going to the guillotine. Women, children, the French peasants don’t care. They chop off their heads with unvarying fervor.”

  “We’re in Scotland, not Utopia,” Lady Valéry said. “We hear the stories here, too, and I hear more than others. After all, my dear duc de Valéry was French.”

  “An unfortunate business development for you, this revolution.” Sebastian flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his buckskin trousers. “You have lost the income from Valéry’s lands, have you not?”

  “I’m not destitute yet,” she snapped. “I still have the income from Guldene. And doesn’t the possibility of government overthrow affect your business, too, Sebastian?”

  She mocked him, but Sebastian answered steadily. “There is that.”

  Lady Valéry faced Mary squarely. “For me, it’s more than just the government. It’s the careers that will be ruined, the lives destroyed. I’m not ashamed of my past. If I had it all to do again, I would repeat every last, delicious moment. But I made a point of being circumspect. No one was ever hurt when I took my pleasures. Now someone, some wretch, threatens to destroy my accomplishments.”

  “Accomplishments?” Mary asked faintly.

  “Accomplishments,” Lady Valéry declared firmly. “Furthermore, I’ll not sit by and watch while the men I loved, and their families, are tortured by scandal.”

  Mary looked at the lady who had saved her life and Hadden’s. Trapped, she asked that lady’s godson, “What has this to do with me?”

  Lord Whitfield settled back, slouching in his chair like an insolent youth. “I’ve traced the diary to Fairchild Manor.”

  Mary’s blood chilled, then warmed with a surge of pure hostility. “Are you accusing me of stealing it, then sending it to the Fairchilds?”

  As a reply, he placed his finger in front of his lips as a parade of servants entered the room. Jill brought a new tea tray, another took the old one away, another brought firewood and stoked the fire. They kept their eyes decently averted, but Mary knew they observed her sitting, speaking with Lady Valéry and her guest. Mary could imagine the speculation in the servants’ hall. Worse, she could imagine how astonished they would be if she shouted at that smug brute who lounged in his chair.

  She’d found safety and refuge in this place, and if it were up to her, they would never know she had been born to the English aristocracy. If it were up to her, tonight would be nothing more than a nightmare.

  Jill came close to Mary and leaned toward her ear. “Shall we serve supper at the appointed time?”

  “At the same time,” she said firmly.

  “And should we set an extra place?”

  Mary turned her head and stared in surprise. “For whom?”

  “For you.”

  Mary’s scowl made Jill straighten hastily. “We’ll serve two for dinner,” she said coldly.

  Jill curtsied and scurried from the library while Lord Whitfield watched. After the door clicked shut he said, “It’s a perfectly natural question. The girl didn’t deserve to be reprimanded.”

  “That was hardly a reprimand.” Mary spaced her words. “But housekeepers don’t eat with the gentry.”

  “Such a little prig. You didn’t get that from Charlie.”

  She hated to hear him talk about her father almost as much as she hated to be compared to her father. Coldly she repeated her question. “Are you accusing me of stealing that diary?”

  “Who else would know where it was but the housekeeper?”

  “I am not a robber.” A murderess, but not a robber.

  “You’re the first Fairchild who could claim that distinction, then.”

  His cynicism infuriated her, and all the more for knowing that her father had indeed been accomplished at “picking up a little something” when he needed.

  “Enough!” Lady Valéry held up her hand. “As you very well know, Sebastian, the diary was stolen over a year ago.” Turning to Mary, she said, “It was during the entertainment I arranged for that horny old bastard.”

  “The French ambassador?” Mary clarified.

  “The very same.” With a half smile, Lady Valéry arranged the rings on her fingers, and Mary knew Lady Valéry had more than a few fond memories of “the horny old bastard.” “
Someone removed one of my jewel boxes. It contained nothing that would interest an accomplished thief—a few lesser pieces of jewelry, an ivory fan—but the working on the box was quite lovely.”

  “My lady, why didn’t you tell me?” Mary asked.

  “My dear, I haven’t had enough house parties for you to know, but something always disappears, and usually several somethings.”

  “Oh.” So others like her father did exist. Mary burned with the shame of knowing such improprieties had occurred in her well-run household. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize…”

  Lady Valéry waved Mary’s perturbation away. “The French are notoriously light-fingered, and their servants learn to steal in their cradles. I thought—I hoped—the thief would toss the diary without realizing the value of the contents, and when so much time had gone by, I believed myself safe.”

  Mary knew that in Lady Valéry’s eyes, she had been exonerated.

  “That letter was quite a shock,” Lady Valéry finished.

  “What letter?” Mary asked.

  “The blackmail letter.” Lady Valéry dusted her fingers together as if the mere mention made them feel dirty.

  “Does your housekeeper know anything about that?” Lord Whitfield doubted Mary in every way. He’d made it clear before; he showed it now with that nasty half smile and his skeptical tone of voice.

  “I have free access to everything here!” Mary wanted to convince him of her innocence in this matter, at least. “Why would I have stolen a diary when I could have had jewels?”

  “The diary is worth more than the crown jewels.” He stood, and Mary shrank back. He observed and found her guilty, she was sure, but he did no more than remove his jacket. Such informality was his right, of course. This was his godmother’s home, and he remained decently covered by a double-breasted waistcoat. His white shirtsleeves covered his arms, but somewhere during the journey he’d untied his cravat, which hung in limp strands around his neck. Slowly he pulled it away and tossed it over an ottoman with his jacket.