5. Tuesday, November 7, 1826

5

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1826

SERVANTS’ QUARTERS

G rosvenor Street

Cassandra knew she should protest and scramble to her feet, but she couldn’t. The earl’s, er Derek’s, body was warm and welcoming, and now that her face was but inches from his, she could smell the bergamot of his shaving soap and the minted scent of his breath, which, in fairness, was coming in rapid huffs.

She knew she should end their inadvertent tumble to the well-worn Turkey carpet in her small parlor. However, her choice was currently rendered nearly impossible because apparently, the aristocrat beneath her was equally loathe to end their predicament.

She quit avoiding staring directly at him and instead looked closely into the blue depths of his eyes. His pupils were wide, and the rapid thuds of his heart beat a mesmerizing tattoo against her breasts. Their lips were so close, it was only a matter of crossing a chasm of inches to finally discover what the man tasted like.

The minute his lips brushed against hers, his tongue seeking a tender invasion, it was if he’d been waiting for permission. Her body responded to the kiss which he seemed intent on prolonging as long as possible.

Thankfully, her sense of self-preservation overruled her emotions in time. She leapt to her feet like a scalded cat, trying to avoid eye contact as she went.

The earl immediately scrambled to his feet as well and joined her. “I am so sorry, Cassandra…I didn’t mean…” He abruptly stopped the awkward explanations and simply stared at her like a small boy outside a candy shop, his face ruddy with embarrassment.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, milord, if I’ve ever given you a false impression…”

He put two fingers against her lips. “I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve imposed on your hospitality all these years. The truth is, I’ve come to rely on your understanding and advice. I’ve put unfair burdens on you. Not only have I expected you to manage this huge household and all of my mistresses’ affairs, but I’ve imposed my own worries on you as well.”

“It’s not your fault. You’re under a lot of pressure with the threats from the blackmailer. You’ve bent over backwards to see all of the women in your care to safety.”

“That still does not excuse taking liberties with your person.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “My father…um…took advantage of our women servants when I was a boy. He made everyone’s lives miserable, including my mother’s. I promised myself I’d never betray a trust like that when I became the earl.”

He acted as if his heart was breaking, and it took all of Cassandra’s considerable will to keep from smoothing his hair back from where it had fallen over one of his eyes. She longed to tell him everything would be fine, and she of all people would never judge him.

At that moment, multiple kitchen bells began to ring, and Derek’s eyes flew to her mussed hair from their tumble to the floor. He quickly gathered her fallen hairpins and helped put her severe coif back to rights.

Neither said a word until he snatched her back into his arms and stole another kiss. This time she immediately pushed him away, exasperated. “Why, Derek?”

His only answer was to place a finger against his own lips and give her a wicked, mischievous smile. “I lied. I’m not sorry.” And then he was gone.

Tuesday, November 7, 1826

Kenton & Bullock Drapers

Cheapside, London

For a moment, there was a deep well of silence. No one uttered a word, not even the outspoken Barrister Stephen Forsythe.

Will stole a glance at John whose face gave nothing away. His partner was very good at stoicism. Will, though, not so much. He waded into the fray.

“What makes the lot of you think we’re at yer disposal to walk away from our enterprise here for weeks on end?”

The barrister extended his hands in a sign of peace. “I’m sorry for being so abrupt, but we have no time to lose.”

“What is so important that you can’t hire someone else to attend to the needs of the earl’s mistress?” John leaned back in his chair and crossed his booted feet at the ankles, belying the tension Will was certain raced through him.

“Right,” Will added. “We could give you the names of half a dozen men who would be much better than the two of us at playing nursemaid to this spoiled woman.”

Lady Camilla huffed out a deep sigh. “I didn’t want to stoop to vulgarity and, um, spell out the earl’s true difficulty.”

“And why not?” Will leaned forward, ignoring the danger signs flashing from his partner’s eyes.

“Because the earl is a personal friend of mine. He’s being blackmailed, and his five mistresses have been threatened. He needs my help.”

“But you still haven’t explained why this help should require both of us.”

Carrington-Bowles interrupted. “Because…we assumed you would be eager to be the recipients of my aunt’s patronage, not to mention that of her many friends and acquaintances amongst the ton.”

Another prolonged silence hung over the Blue Room like coal-smoke-laden fog.

Will felt as if he might explode, but kept his silence. They could not afford to pass up this opportunity, which was why John was staring so intently toward him above his tented fingers.

John finally broke the silence. “We’ll do it.”

Lady Camilla held a dainty finger in the air. “But there is one thing you should know. The young woman and her lady’s maid cannot know the real reason you’re there.”

“And we should tell them…what?” John let his hands rest at his side.

“Why, you’ll tell them you’re there to totally re-decorate their townhouse.”

“All right…and then what?”

“You’ll keep your eyes and ears open and be ready for anything,” Forsythe said, before adding, “and one more thing.”

“Which is?” Will rolled his eyes.

“You have to find out whether Miss Fauchette or her lady’s maid are murderesses.”

“Done,” John said, in a forceful tone that brooked no more nonsense.

Lady Camilla rose, signaling the interview was over, and when Will bowed low over her hand, she added one last parting gift. “Oh, and it’s high time we did a total renovation of my St. James Square mansion. I’ll expect the two of you to bring samples to me when you’ve finished your time with the Misses Fauchette and Tamaryn.”

John gave Will a long look over a generous tumbler of brandy and let out a huge sigh. “What in the hell do you think that was all about?”

“I don’t think they told us everything.” Will took a long sip of his preferred calming influence, rich Irish whiskey.

John sighed again. “Does it really matter? The business she’s promised to send our way could make us very rich men.”

“If we’re to live under the same roof with two women we’ve never met, who may or may not be murderesses, we could end up very dead men.” Will saluted his partner with his tumbler and poured the final dregs of the fiery whiskey down his throat.

Tuesday, November 7, 1826

Theatre Royal

Covent Garden, London

Margot leaned over the rail at the front of the earl’s box at the Theatre Royal and swept a leisurely look at the raucous crowd below. She took in the lower-tiered courtesans who prowled the streets of Covent Garden. They were all dressed in gay, gaudy colors with bits and baubles twinkling from their hair and dangling from their ears. But for the grace of God (and the earl), she and Gabrielle might be down there with them instead of in the elegant box where Young Rutherford served everyone glasses of fine sparkling wine.

Gabrielle probably needed to slow down her intake, but Margot hated to bring up even the suggestion of cutting back. Anything she sensed was a judgment of her behavior set the younger woman off into spasms of resentment and mistrust for days.

Margot’s nerves jangled more than usual, because she was suspicious of why the earl had suddenly sent a note that afternoon proposing a night at the theater instead of their usual Tuesday night at home. Was he tiring of her? Did he resent her capricious lady’s maid? No one with a farthing of sense would ever mistake Gabrielle for a servant. She was sure he suspected they were lovers, but she would never bring up the subject.

Her attention wandered once again to the crowd below since Sheridan’s The Duenna was a light holiday entertainment that was of little interest to her. She’d nearly fallen asleep during the pantomime portion.

And then she heard something behind her…whispers and laughing. She was terrified to look, because what if the one thing she’d long feared was actually happening? What if the earl transferred his affections to Gabrielle? What if he not only let Margot go, but kept her lover with him? She’d been uneasy all evening ever since he’d had arrived for his night with Margot and had declared he was treating both her and her lady’s maid to a night at the theater.

She couldn’t help herself and looked. Young Rutherford had opened a bottle of Champagne, the fizzy wine the earl was so fond of that he imported the bottles by the case. The expensive wine had foamed over, soaking their under butler’s shirt and trousers. Gabrielle was trying to blot him dry with her handkerchief, and the earl was laughing at their efforts.

Margot bit back tears. Why couldn’t she stop mistrusting Gabrielle? She had to accept that the woman she’d loved since that fateful night loved her in return. Otherwise, the bitterness would destroy both of them.