Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Richard thought of nothing but their conversation for days afterwards. Even his mother had given up trying to get through to him, instead leaving him to fester in his study. One moment, Richard considered Celestina's suggestion viable, but the next, he realized how foolish he was being. A servant! It was nonsense, and she knew it.

Now, he sat in his study, his quill hovering over his ledger. He had quite forgotten whatever figure he would write in it, his mind far too distracted by Celestina.

"Ah yes!" he muttered when he remembered, but as he lowered the quill to the parchment, he discovered he had hesitated for so long that the ink had dried entirely. He swore to himself, then returned it to its stand and leaned back in his chair, annoyed at himself. He needed to do something to get this matter off his mind, but the woman was too confounding. He knew she would refuse whatever offers he made.

He looked up when a knock came on the door.

"Your Grace, may I?"

Jenkins, one of Richard's most loyal footmen, hovered in the doorway, his hand still raised to the thick oak where he'd knocked.

"What can I do for you, Jenkins?" Richard said. "Come in. Sit."

He had his hands folded over his stomach, and he looked up wearily. The footman bounced into the room, full of his usual energy. He was a tall man, though thinner than a rake, and it made him seem unnaturally bendy and buoyant. He was a well-trusted employee, though, and had become something of a confidante to Richard during his time at Exeter House. He lumbered himself into a chair in the front of the desk.

"I have some news, Your Grace. About … you know." He glanced behind him surreptitiously.

Richard knew what he was talking about. He inhaled deeply, then he got up from his seat and quietly closed the door. He strolled back to his chair, his head lowered, unsure whether he wanted to hear what Jenkins had to say.

"I see," he replied. "I trust she is safe?"

Jenkins made a noncommittal noise before continuing, which only served to unnerve Richard further.

"I have waited outside her home all week, just as you asked. Watching the comings and goings."

Richard lowered himself into his chair, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes searching the floor while he listened intently.

"But you haven't had to intervene in anything?" He glanced up at Jenkins hopefully.

"Not as yet, Your Grace," he replied.

That didn't sound good. Not good at all.

"But the man you were concerned about—Mr Willoughby."

Richard groaned. "What about him?"

"He's been to visit Mrs Courtenay at least once a day. Sometimes twice."

"Whatever for?" Richard asked, though he knew well enough. The man was visiting to manipulate poor Celestina. He was after something, that much was clear, and Richard knew he didn't like the man. He was only glad that Celestina seemed to be uninterested, too.

Jenkins shrugged. "There's never anything untoward, and from what I can see, Mrs Courtenay sends him away quickly, if not immediately. But he's there often, Your Grace. I didn't actually see him, but even from afar, I can see how smarmy the man is. You say he's a businessman?"

"Yes," Richard replied, though he was distracted by his thoughts.

If Mr Willoughby was attending Celestina daily, he was more of a concern than even Richard first thought. He was dangerous, and Celestina was in an extremely vulnerable position.

"All right, Jenkins. Thank you," he said without looking up at the man.

He heard the door close behind the footman, but his eyes didn't move from the desk. His thoughts didn't waver. It was becoming all the more imperative that he get Celestina out of that house and away from that man. But he'd thought of all the options before, and none were to his liking.

He sighed heavily and raised his eyes to look to the heavens. "I suppose you win, then, Celestina," he muttered. "I shall have to give in to your conditions if I am to have any hope of saving you at all."

If the only way to get her under his roof—and therefore his protection—was to give her employment, then give her employment he would.

At least on the face of it.

He smiled at that new thought. He would lure her here under the pretence of employment and then simply give her no tasks. He grinned, thrilled by his ingenuity, then got up to find his mother.

She was in the conservatory when she found him, fussing with the largest bunch of flowers he'd ever seen.

"There you are," he said. "I've been looking all over for you."

She tutted in response, not looking up at him but sliding a single rose from the bunch and playing it elsewhere in the vase. "Honestly, the maid who put this display together must have been blind!"

Sunlight flooded the room, the glass of the conservatory spotless between the heavy white iron frame. Richard looked out over the garden appreciatively, as he always did when he entered this room. It had been an expensive addition when they'd moved in, but it had been worth every penny.

"Do you intentionally hire staff with little wit about them?" she asked, pulling Richard's attention back to the round mahogany table in front of him.

"It looks pretty enough to me," he said with a shrug. "It's very colourful."

She looked up at him finally, with a single eyebrow raised. "Yes, well, I've always known not to go to a man regarding matters of taste."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he replied coolly. "Are you busy? I'd like a word."

"About what?" she asked, giving the flowers one final shake and then turning to sit on the wicker couch that lined the wall. She crossed one leg over the other, her arms outstretched across the back of the couch, and looked up at him, the sun lighting up the entire left side of her face.

"Staff, actually." He joined her on the couch but twisted his body so that he could look at her properly.

The truth was, he was a fool for a sad story and so yes, there was a good chance the maid who arranged the flowers did lack wit. But she was probably likewise hard on luck and in desperate need of employment.

His mother rolled her eyes. "What is it this time? Waif or stray?"

"Neither, actually," he replied. He pasted on a smile, hoping his happiness would be contagious. He was out of luck. "It's someone you know already. Mrs Celestina Courtenay."

His mother snorted in the most unladylike fashion, seemingly finding the situation highly amusing. "Oh, Richard," she said with a laugh. "You are funny sometimes."

"I'm perfectly serious, Mother," he replied in such a tone that she could not be mistaken. "Celestina has encountered some … difficulties—"

"Yes, darling," his mother snapped back. "We are all well aware. The whole of London is aware. But I don't see how it is our responsibility simply because her husband left her with nothing."

"We're old friends, Mother," Richard replied incredulously. "And she is struggling."

"Yes, but why should we give her handouts when—"

" We are giving her nothing," he replied, shooting her a warning look. "But I am offering her employment. I would have thought you'd like that, seeing her as one of the staff."

His mother narrowed her eyes at him. "I am not a cruel woman, Richard, regardless of what you seem to think. But I don't see how it could work. An ostracized, widowed aristocrat in our home? What on earth will people say?"

"I don't care what people say, Mother. I care only for seeing my friends safe and the chores in the house done."

"And what will she do?" she shot back. "Does she even have any skills?"

"Mother," Richard warned. "She has run her own household for years. I should imagine she has many skills. Besides, you always say you've got too much to do."

"Such as?" she persisted.

Richard thought quickly. He realized his mother would never allow her to do nothing, but he could at least arrange it so that her tasks were enjoyable.

"Why, she'll take care of the party planning. You've said yourself that I don't throw enough social occasions for a duke—and that's only because neither of us has time to organize it. Celestina will be perfect for that job."

His mother snorted again, shaking her head. "An events organizer! Really, Richard. You do have some funny ideas about you."

"And … and she can help with running the household," he added quickly.

"And do you think Mrs Jones will be happy with that?" she asked. It seemed to Richard that her eyebrows had taken up permanent residence on her forehead, tense and high.

"I don't think Mrs Jones will have much choice," he retorted. "Though I should imagine that anyone who can help take the load off will be welcomed."

Lady Kingsley huffed loudly. "It won't work."

"You don't have to be so negative about everything," Richard snapped, irritated that he had not foreseen his mother's refusal to cooperate. "Besides, I would have thought you'd be pleased."

"Ha! Pleased? To have a social pariah under my roof?"

" My roof," he reminded her.

"Oh, you know what I mean."

He took a deep breath, remembering that this whole thing would be easier if his mother were on his side. Some days, it felt like he had to find a way to appease everyone when all he really wanted to do was help someone in need.

"Think about how much extra time you'll have," he said, his voice soft and placating. "You'll be able to luncheon with your friends more often. Or perhaps do a little extra shopping."

"I spend far too much time eating as it is, and I don't want to go shopping," she replied. Her bottom lip pouted out like a petulant child's. Richard needed to find something she could cling to.

"Ah yes," he said, the idea coming to him, "but what about extra time to find the perfect bride."

She eyed him sideways. "Bride?" she said. "For you?"

"For me." He nodded his head.

"Well, I suppose that would be beneficial," she said, finally turning her frown into a smile. "You know how important it is that we find you a good match soon."

"Exactly," he said, hanging onto this glimmer of hope.

"But promise me one thing," his mother said, her excitement simmering.

"Anything," he said.

"You're not doing this because you still have some silly romantic feelings for her, are you?"

It was Richard's turn to snort this time, though it was forced. It was a question he had asked himself many times already, but he was certain it was not that. Absolutely certain.

I Just need to convince my heart as well as my head.

"Romantic? Goodness no! I am over that childhood nonsense. You should have a little more faith in me."

"Very well," his mother said with a grin. She reached over and patted his knee like he was a schoolboy once more. "Then I accept your proposal."

"Lady Rebecca Humphrey, Your Grace," Beaumont said from the doorway.

Richard turned to see the butler bowing and, behind him, Lady Rebecca. He forced his smile wider while inside, he groaned.

"Proposal?" Lady Rebecca said as she sauntered into the room.

"My Lady," Richard said politely, nodding his head in her direction and indicating that she should sit down. "How delightful it is to see you."

"And you too," Lady Rebecca replied. "In such a beautiful room as well. Did I hear something about a proposal?"

Richard blinked at her, aghast that she had the audacity to intrude on a private conversation, though he supposed it was expected of a woman in desperate need of a husband. Lady Rebecca had somehow wormed her way into their lives, and his mother seemed intent on keeping her there. He supposed she thought herself one of the family already.

"Organizing the staff," he said by way of answer at exactly the same time as his mother said, "Richard is hiring Mrs Courtenay out of pity."

Richard shot his mother a look.

"Mrs Courtenay? Isn't that the lady we bumped into in town the other day."

"One and the same," his mother said.

When Richard returned his attention to Lady Rebecca, he noted that she had a look of concern about her. To his endless shame, he rather liked that.

"And I am not hiring her out of pity," Richard clarified. "She needs employment, and we need assistance. It's the perfect solution. Isn't that right, Mother?"

He shot her a warning look. She smiled sweetly, filled with a false innocence that he knew better than to believe.

"Of course, dear."

Lady Rebecca watched him carefully. "Well, be wary, won't you, Your Grace?" she said. "I have heard all about what such desperate women are capable of." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Seduction."

Richard straightened and inhaled sharply. "Thank you for your concern, My Lady," he replied. "But I think I am quite capable of looking after myself."

Chapter 13

Sylvia counted out the money carefully, then slipped it into her cloak pocket, feeling rather satisfied. She'd managed to sell the antique vase for a price higher than even Celestina was expecting. And, to her delight, she had also managed to sell a bracelet she'd had since she was a child. She added that to the money for the tea service, and she would hand it over to Celestina altogether.

She knew her employer and friend would be furious to think she had sold one of her own paltry possessions, but while Celestina had no income, it was only fair that Sylvia contributed something of her own to their household costs.

And besides, she wanted to see Celestina happy and safe. The pair had been together for many years, and in some ways, Sylvia had come to see Celestina as a sister. An older, wiser, more beautiful sister admittedly, but a sister all the same.

"Thank you, Mr Winslow," she said to the pawnbroker with a nod. "I know Mrs Courtenay will appreciate it, as do I."

"Nothing to appreciate," the man said. "Business is business. The tea service you sold me last week brought me a good profit."

He turned to deal with the next customer, and Sylvia made her way out of the shop. A little brass bell rang as she pulled open the door and stepped onto the bustling street.

"Watch it!" one man cried as a carriage trundled down the cobbled street, knocking him out of the way and splashing up a puddle as it went. Sylvia jumped back to avoid him, then skirted around him, giggling at how wet the poor fellow was now.

Further down, two men rolled wooden casks of ale across the road and into the tavern, their clothes mucky and their brows thick with sweat. Urchins dashed between legs to avoid being caught or stopped with their hands out, hoping for a coin or two from the rich folk who shopped here.

Sylvia inhaled the rich, earthy smell of the busy street, thinking that perhaps not everything was so terrible after all. They had a little money now, and there was still more to sell. The sun was shining, and they had the most important thing of all—their lives, and each other.

Feeling positive, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cloak and took off down the road. She didn't see the man bundle into her until she was on the ground, staring up at him horrified.

There were two of them, young and rough and full of snarls. Though one wore a scarf over his face, Sylvia was certain she recognized the other. He stared at her wide-eyed for the briefest of seconds, and then the two of them were gone, chasing after each other down the street.

Syliva blinked, trying to get her bearings back, when a man approached her.

"Goodness me, are you all right?"

"I … oh …" She held her breath in a desperate attempt to stop the tears from flowing. She looked about her, unsure exactly what had happened, and raised herself onto her elbows. "I think so," she said.

The man crouched down beside her. "Can you get up? Are you hurt?"

Sylvia shook her head. "I don't think so. Just a little shaken."

"I'm not surprised. Brutes like that shouldn't be allowed out on the streets."

The man looked in the direction they had run, but they were long gone, no sign of them left. He turned back to Sylvia and helped her to her feet.

"Did you know them?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, no. At least, I don't think I did. They rather came out of nowhere."

"I saw the whole thing," the man replied. "Walter. Walter Rivers. Solicitor. Can I do anything for you? I'd say you're in need of a cup of sweet tea."

"Or a brandy," Sylvia replied with a giggle. "My name's Sylvia Taylor."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Sylvia."

"Oh, no." She giggled again. " Miss Taylor."

When she looked up at the kind man, she realized how handsome he was. He couldn't have been older than five-and-thirty, but he had a distinguished look about him, a wisdom that belonged to a much older gentleman. His hair was peppered with grey, his green eyes broken with shards of blue.

She smiled at him, but in smiling, she remembered something and gasped. Without saying a word, she shoved her hand into her cloak pocket.

No. No. No. Please, no!

It was gone! Every last penny she had.

She shoved her hands in every pocket, just in case she had moved the money. She knew she had not, but she hoped, prayed, begged the Lord that she had moved it and forgotten. When she found nothing, she turned and searched the floor, scrabbling between the cobbles as though coins might have found their way beneath the mud.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's the matter? Have you lost something?"

"The money," she said with a whimper. "It's gone. It's all gone. What am I going to do?"

Still she searched, pushing her hands into her pockets over and over again in the foolish hope that it might reappear or that it had been buried so deep that she couldn't find it.

"Miss Taylor," Mr Rivers said. "Miss Taylor? Miss Taylor!"

She could hear the words, but they had turned into a background echo, her own name lost beneath her rising panic. How could she have lost it all? What was she going to say to Celestina? That her beloved Wedgewood service was gone—and for nothing!

"Miss Taylor?"

He hovered over her, a hand near her as if he wanted to touch her, embrace her to calm her hysteria, but he remained the consummate gentleman.

"Miss Taylor," he repeated.

"It's gone." She looked up at him again, her vision blurry with tears. "The money. I've lost it."

Realization dawned on Mr Rivers' face, and he again looked towards the two men. When he turned back to Sylvia, his expression had turned ashen.

"I don't think you've lost it, Miss Taylor. I think it was stolen. Those two men—I believe they were pickpockets."

Later, as she was reporting the incident to the constable, Sylvia finally stopped shaking. Walter—as he now insisted she call him—had suggested they report what had happened.

"Do you think you'll find them?" she asked once he'd taken her full statement.

The constable seemed entirely uninterested, having seen such things every day. "Pickpockets are ten to a penny around here, Miss Taylor. I can't promise anything, I'm afraid."

"And what of the money?" she asked. She knew it was foolish, but she had to hope.

The constable laughed. "I'd say you've seen the last of that. The best you can hope for is that we catch the men and see them punished, and even that …"

He trailed off, allowing her to finish the sentence in her mind. Her shoulders slumped. It was all useless. She knew there would be no point in reporting it.

"All right," she said.

Walter must have noted the disappointment in her voice because he said, "Worry not. The authorities are very good at their job. They will keep their eyes peeled. Won't you?"

He shot a look at the constable, who must have come to the same realization. He nodded firmly. "Oh, yes, yes. Absolutely."

"You see?" Walter grinned at her, and seeing him smile put her somewhat at ease as they left the constable and returned to the street.

"Thank you, Walter. I really don't know how I could ever repay you."

"Seeing you safe is payment enough, Sylvia. I could never bear to see a woman in distress—and not least at the hands of brutish thugs like those two men."

"You are a good man," she said.

Indeed, he was. Already, she found herself rather enamoured by him. He was kind and strong, not to mention handsome, and she felt drawn to him in a way she had never experienced before. Naturally, she quickly shook it off. He was a professional man with a London townhouse, and she was a maid.

Still, she was grateful for all he had done for her and hoped to repay him somehow.

One day.

"How are you getting home?" he asked. "Do you have someone waiting for you? In a carriage, perhaps?"

Sylvia pressed her lips together and shook her head, her eyes lowered to the ground. "I walked to town, and I must walk back."

"Well, that is one thing you most definitely will not do," he said firmly. "Follow me."

Without waiting for her response, he marched away. She paused for a moment, shocked by his words, then trotted quickly behind him. She was far too overwhelmed to do otherwise.

"Where are we going?" she called after him.

"To my carriage. It's at the coaching house just around the corner. I shall take you home, Miss Taylor."

"Sylvia. But really, there's no need. You've done far too much for me already. I couldn't possibly accept any further kindness."

He swung around and grinned at her. "It is not a kindness," he said simply. "It is an insistence. I cannot see you walk home after all you have been through. Come along now."

Taken aback by his forcefulness, Sylvia found herself following him. His carriage was large and well-maintained, with the paintwork recently refreshed. It bore his family's coat of arms.

"Goodness, it's—"

"An excellent way to get you home," he said, holding the door open for her to enter. He must have sensed her hesitation once more because he shot her a reassuring glance. "It's all right, Sylvia. You are quite safe with me. Apart from anything, the coachman is up front."

She nodded and then climbed in, deciding she didn't have much choice. Even if he did allow her to walk home, she genuinely wasn't sure she would have the energy. The incident had left her entirely drained.

"There are not so many men in London who would be so kind as you," she said.

"I am afraid I have seen my share of cruel men. My father … well, the less said about him, the better, but let's just say my poor mother bore the brunt of his temper."

"That's awful," Sylvia replied, her heart pinching at his words.

"It's all right. It's over now. Mother is in a better place. But it is why I can never walk past a woman in distress. It brings back far too many memories. Will you be all right? Was it a lot of money?"

She lowered her eyes, the memory of it hitting her again. She nodded. It was more than a month's salary!

"I was selling some of Mrs Courtenay's belongings," she said quietly. "My employer."

"Mrs Courtenay …" He tapped a finger against his bottom lip, his eyes raised to the carriage ceiling. "Why ever do I know that name?"

Sylvia sighed. "No doubt because everyone in London is talking about her since the death of her husband."

"That's right! I remember now!" Walter turned to her with a grin. "David Courtenay. Recently deceased. But why on earth would his widow want to sell her belongings in such a way?"

Sylvia squirmed in her seat, worried she had already given away far too much. But though Walter was a stranger, she felt compelled to confide in him—and confident that she could trust him.

"I am surprised you have not heard that along with the other rumours," she said. "Mr Courtenay, it seems, was in significant financial trouble when he died. Poor Celestina was left with nothing."

Walter furrowed his brow, looking at her like he didn't quite believe her. "But that can't be right," he said. "I knew David Courtenay. He was one of the best businessmen I have even met."

Sylvia shrugged. She didn't know the ins and outs of it. She had never been clever when it came to numbers and things financial in nature. She only knew what she had been told—as Celestina did.

"It was all lost, apparently. I don't know the details."

Walter made a musing sound, shaking his head slowly. "How very strange," he said, his words tainted with the distraction of his thoughts.

"Either way, Celestina is in a rather difficult situation. I was overjoyed to have received so much money for the goods I sold today—I even slipped in a few coins of my own. Not much, you understand, but something. And now it's all gone! I don't know what we're going to do."

Walter exhaled as he looked at her. "It must be a great concern," he said, though it seemed to Sylvia that his thoughts continued to work behind his eyes. She only wished she could know what they were.

Before long, the carriage rolled to a stop outside the house. Walter looked out of the carriage window and whistled.

"I can see why you and Mrs Courtenay would be sad to leave such a house," he said. "It's impressive."

"It's even better inside," Sylvia replied. She looked at him seriously, catching her gaze with her eyes and holding it. "Walter, thank you so much for everything you have done today. It is a kindness I haven't deserved—and from a stranger, as well."

"I am no longer a stranger, though, Sylvia," he said, returning her gaze softly. "I hope we can call ourselves friends now."

Sylvia blushed, her cheeks warming at the notion of being friends with a man like Walter Rivers. An intelligent, handsome, warm man.

"Well, thank you," she said again, for she had no idea what else to say.

She stepped out of the carriage and began the walk up the pathway. The front door was already open; Celestina stood in front of it talking to a man.

The duke?

She tilted her head, trying to get a better idea. She hoped it was the duke. He had such a good heart, so clear that anyone could see. So much better than that horrid Mr Willoughby.

"Wait!" Walter called.

She stopped, paused to calm her beating heart, and then turned around. "Yes?"

"Perhaps … Would you like if I came in and spoke to Mrs Courtenay on your behalf? Explain to her what happened? I might also be able to help find you a place to stay."

Sylvia blushed again, overwhelmed once more by his kindness. But in her pleasure, she detected a note of something else, something sourer.

Possession?

While she wanted to let him, she didn't want to share this moment with Celestina, no matter how much she cared for her. After all, Walter would fall for her the moment he saw her—all men did.

But he is too good for you , she reminded herself, reprimanding herself sharply. She was nothing but a maid—and one without proper employment. He would never have any interest in her. No. She had to focus on her mistress and friend and do everything she could to ensure their safety and happiness.

"Thank you," she said. "That is most kind."