Chapter 33

"You are still quite pale. You are not suffering a relapse, are you Martin?" the countess demanded the following morning, peering at Stacia through suspicious, squinty eyes. "Or is it reveling with rustics that has left you so hollow-eyed?"

"I feel fine," Stacia lied. She was exhausted. And miserable. She had tossed and turned in her bed until after eight o'clock, alternately shedding tears and cursing Shelton's name.

Obviously, he had better things to do.

Lady Addiscombe gestured to the bed tray across her lap. "You may take this, Martin." She aimed a dissatisfied moue at the nearly untouched coddled eggs. "I don't recall Cook being so heavy-handed with cream when I oversaw the house."

Stacia lifted the tray and was about to set it near the door and ring for a servant when her employer said, "No, Martin. I want you to take it down. You may bring me a poached egg and plain toast. Pray tell Cook that eggs do not need to swim in cream."

"Yes, my lady."

Stacia was amused to note the number of sleepy, heavy eyes in evidence when she reached the kitchen. So, she was not the only one who'd got too little sleep.

"I don't see how the swells do this night after night," Dora was saying to Sally, one of Cook's helpers.

"They can do it because they don't have to get up the next morning and set fires," groused Kitty, another maid, who was scarcely much larger than Stacia but had an amusingly booming voice.

"Any more complaining and I might have to advise the master against such entertainment in the future," Davis said, coolly surveying the larger than average collection of servants milling about.

Maids and footmen scattered in all directions like mice running from a cat.

Cook glared from the tray to Stacia. "Is something wrong with my food?"

"Her ladyship said it was delicious. It is just that she is feeling a little delicate this morning. She would like a plain poached egg on plain toast." Stacia smiled at the grim-faced woman. "I will wait and bring it up to her."

"Plain," the Cook snapped and then turned on her heel and stormed off.

Davis frowned and hastened after Mrs. Barton, probably to soothe her ruffled feathers.

"Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?" Mrs. Nutter said, gesturing to a steaming pot.

"Thank you." Stacia took the chair across from her and poured a cup while the housekeeper resumed drawing up a massive shopping list.

She sipped her tea and enjoyed a moment of relaxation, something she knew would be in short supply as Lady Addiscombe had announced that she was going to rejoin her family tonight at dinner to ensure their Christmas antics did not get out of hand.

The door opened and two maids entered burdened with empty breakfast trays that told Stacia Lady Addiscombe wasn't the only one having a lazy morning.

"—gone to Brighton, is what I heard," one of the maids said, carefully putting crockery from her tray into a basin of water where a scullery maid was washing dishes.

The other maid chortled. "Or to the village, I reckon. I was in Mrs. Johnson's shop the day he popped in to have one of his gloves re-stitched. She asked if he wanted to collect his gloves in person from her house later that evening."

The women laughed.

"She's always boastin' about the lovers she had when she lived in London," another maid chimed in.

The first girl nodded. "Aye, she casts eyes at the master whenever he is—" She stopped abruptly when Davis entered the room.

But it was too late, the intimidating butler had overheard.

He frowned at the gossiping maids, his face a mask of displeasure. "You will not speak disrespectfully of his lordship beneath his own roof, Grace Tilney!" His cold eyes swept over the other two. "If the three of you have nothing better to do than engage in idle chatter you can help Thomas and Anthony carry the rugs from the drawing room. I am sure you will do an excellent job beating them clean."

The girls fled.

Stacia remembered well the lush beauty of the shop owner. Mrs. Johnson was a gregarious and sensual woman, that much had been clear just from looking at her. She'd also been generous and kind to Stacia, offering to connect her with a friend in London who had a dress shop.

Is that where Shelton had gone last night?

Stacia could see how Mrs. Johnson would appeal to a man who was so sensual and experienced. Doubtless the dressmaker would happily invite him into her bed without engaging in such foolishness as darkness and blindfolds.

She was suddenly assaulted by a vivid image of the lush-bodied widow spread out on Andrew's lap the way Stacia had been, his lips teasing a bosom that was far more impressive than her own.

"Here you are, Miss."

Stacia jolted, pitifully relieved when the unsettling mental image dissolved. She stood and took the tray with shaking hands. "Thank you."

As she hurried back to her mistress, she pushed down the revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her. Surely Shelton would not go from begging Stacia to come to the ball straight to another woman's bed a few hours later?

Surely not?

By the time dinner was finished Stacia was a grim mass of nerves. She had spent the day—and twice during the meal—fetching and carrying for the countess, who was even more fitful and demanding than usual.

Several times she'd been on the brink of running out of the room screaming and throwing herself on the mercy of Lady Shaftsbury or Lady Needham. The only thing that kept her from accepting any of the kind offers of employment she had received was the knowledge that working for the Bellamy family would mean continued exposure to Lord Shelton in the years to come. Who knew, perhaps she would be forced to encounter him next Christmas with a wife beside him!

No. It was simply too miserable to be borne.

"Do you play whist, Miss Martin?"

Stacia looked up from the needlework in her lap—or Lady Addiscombe's rather—and smiled up at the tall, slender Duchess of Chatham, the most reserved of the Bellamy siblings. She opened her mouth to admit she was an indifferent player at best, but her employer—who had been sitting with her eyes closed, looking pained at the revelry occurring around them in the drawing room—where not one, but three kissing boughs had been hung—opened her eyes and turned a truly venomous gaze on her daughter.

"Martin is busy being of use—she has no time to squander on cards ."

Rather than look hurt, offended, or anything , really, the duchess merely blinked and turned her calm gaze on her parent.

Lady Addiscombe glared up at her for a moment and then began to fuss with the shawl she was wearing. "Martin!" she snapped, as if Stacia were across the room rather than three feet away. "I am ready to retire to bed. You will attend me."

Stacia set aside her employer's mangled needlework, smiled at the duchess, and then helped the countess to her feet.

"Don't pull on me so!" Lady Addiscombe grumbled. "And bring my basket up with you. I will want to work on it in the morning." She cast a searing gaze at the revelers. "There will be no point leaving my room until well after tea, I am sure."

Stacia picked up both work baskets and hurried to open the door for Lady Addiscombe.

"You will no longer remain in the drawing room after dinner. I have realized—far too late—that leaving you with my children and their friends every evening was not worth the paltry bit of information you managed to gather." The countess cut Stacia a scathing look. "Do not think I have forgotten your refusal to support me on the matter of Shelton, Miss Martin." She sniffed. "Although I am pleased to see that somebody must have come to their senses and rid the house of the scourge."

Stacia opened the door to Lady Addiscombe's chambers without comment. She had heard nothing about Lord Shelton's whereabouts. And she did not have the courage to ask anyone.

By the time she was permitted to hand the fractious countess over to Ackers for the evening it was almost midnight and Stacia was utterly exhausted.

She had hoped that sleep would come to her quickly, but she tossed and turned for at least an hour before dropping into a restless doze, her mind filled with unwanted images of Lord Shelton and Mrs. Johnson.

The last thought Stacia had, just before surrendering to oblivion, was that she should have said yes.

***

Stacia woke a few hours after dawn on Christmas Day feeling scarcely more rested than when she had gone to bed. But a quick look out the window and the sparkling wonderland beyond, complete with a fresh blanket of snow sparkling with the pale lemon yellow of dawn, was enough to lift even her depressed spirits.

She dressed quickly and warmly and hurried to deposit her secret gift outside Lady Shaftsbury's door. Hopefully Stacia would get to see the beautiful, sweet lady employing her new fan at the dinner before the ball, which Lady Addiscombe was deigning to attend, although not the ball itself.

Stacia couldn't work up much regret for missing the event. Not with Shelton gone.

She shoved the beautiful man and his whereabouts from her thoughts and hurried down to the stables to see the dog.

Terrence had greeted her after her two days in the attic as if she had been gone for a decade.

Stacia had not been able to visit him yesterday, or the day before, either. If she didn't go to the stables now, she would once again be drawn tightly into the countess's orbit and have no time to visit later.

Mr. Higgins and two grooms were in the courtyard when she approached.

"Ah, come to check on the wee beastie, have you? But you're too late, Miss."

Stacia's jaw dropped. "He—he is dead ?"

"Ach! No, lass," the stablemaster said with a grimace, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. "I just meant that he's gone with his lordship."

"His lordship?" she repeated stupidly, her heart still pounding from her shock.

"Lord Shelton," one of the grooms said, earning a look from Higgins that caused the younger man to quickly turn back to his task sweeping off snow.

"Aye, Miss. Gerald be right—the mark-wiss did take the master's curricle and pair. The wee dog hopped in and when Lord Shelton put him out again, he ran behind the carriage." Higgins grinned. "The hound, that is, not Lord Shelton."

The two grooms chuckled and even Stacia smiled.

"But why would Terrence insist on going with Lord Shelton?"

"All the treats and bones is reason enough," the irrepressible groom piped up, risking his superior's chiding. But Higgins just chuckled and nodded, his eyes twinkling fondly.

"Lord Shelton has been bringing Terrence bones?" she asked.

"Between you and his lordship the little rogue is right spoiled. He learned to hide the bone you'd given him when his lordship came—and then did the same with you, Miss. A right clever little creature," he added, clearly admiring such canine enterprise.

"And his lordship left—with the dog," she hastily added. "Yesterday, you say?"

"Nay lass, the day before."

"The day of the dance," she repeated stupidly.

"Aye, left in the middle of the day—right after flying to the village and then flying back just as fast." He clucked his tongue. "I told him t'would snow, but he just gave one of his laughs. I'm from the north, Higgins , where we know what real snow means. " Higgins gave a sharp laugh and shook his head. " Real snow! As if I don't recall Scottish winters from when I was a wee‘un and it was stacked higher than my heed."

Stacia couldn't help noticing that his accent seemed to have become more pronounced.

So, evidently, had the two grooms, who snickered.

Higgins shot them a warning look before turning back to Stacia. "Gone to London he has."

"London! What for?" she blurted before she could catch herself.

"Ha! A lad like his lordship? Likely needing a bit o—" he broke off when he recalled to whom he was speaking, cleared his throat, and then said rather lamely, "Don't rightly know why, Miss."

Stacia saw sympathy in his gaze and that was enough to make her skin burn in the chill morning air. "Thank you," she said shortly, and then strode back to the house.

He went to the village first but quickly returned. Had he gone to see Mrs. Johnson as the maids had suggested? Had she not been available, so he'd gone to London to satiate his carnal needs as Higgins had implied?

You told him no. What he does is no concern of yours, is it?

Stacia tried to convince herself that was true, but her heart was not fooled.

By the time she reached her room she wanted to crawl under the covers and—

"Miss!"

She turned to find Dora hurrying toward her, a steaming pitcher of water in her hands.

"Oh, I've already washed, Dora. But thank—"

"No, this isn't for you. But I do have something else." She slipped a hand into her apron pocket and came out with a small, gold-foil wrapped package.

Stacia looked from the gift to Dora. "Are you my secret St. Nicholas?"

"No, Miss. This is from"—she broke off, glanced around, and leaned close, sloshing water over both their shoes as she hissed, "Lord Shelton. He said to deliver it to you this morning if he wasn't here." She grimaced. "I was to leave it while you were sleeping, but I got, er, distracted, like." She grinned and thrust her free hand into Stacia's face, wiggling her fingers to display the ring she wore. "Thomas told me how you said to explain about Lady Shaftsbury's maid chasin' after him. He also said you told him that he needed to tell me the gift was from him." She chortled. "The daftie. If you'd not spoken to him, I might be betrothed to somebody else right now!"

"Betrothed? Oh, congratulations, Dora!"

"Thanks, Miss. He's a good lad—so pretty his lack of sense don't matter."

Stacia laughed. Down the hall a door opened, and Lord Crewe's valet poked his head out and scowled.

"Whoops!" Dora said, hurrying toward the other servant.

Stacia stared at the box in her hand and then opened the door to her room and set it carefully on the bed before stripping off her outer layers. And then she sat and held the pretty gold present, just looking at it, her mind in a tangle.

What did this gift mean? Was he her secret St. Nicholas? Or was this something else?

Stacia took a deep breath and struggled to calm her thoughts. After several moments she carefully unwrapped the gift, trying to save the pretty paper.

She gasped when she opened the box and saw not just the loveliest pair of cream kid leather opera gloves, but also a dozen hairpins with sparkling brilliants.

Tucked inside one of the gloves was a folded note.

She swallowed, set aside the box, and unfolded it.

Merry Christmas, Stacia. I am sorry I could not deliver this in person, but important business in London has called me away. The gloves are for you to wear to the ball—I do hope you will defy the countess and make an appearance—and it will give me wicked pleasure to know you are wearing something I bought for you on your delectable body, so close to your skin.

"Andrew," she muttered, blushing even though there was nobody to see.

As for the glittering hair pins, they were just a silly afterthought that appealed to my magpie-like sensibilities. Also, I suspect you are guilty of denying yourself such frivolous pleasures. And then there is the fact that they will come in handy as counters the next time we play a naughty card game.

Your servant (although you refused to allow me to show it!)

Andrew

Like a ninny, Stacia pressed the note against her heart. The gloves and pins were lovely—and he was right that she'd not bought herself anything pointless and pretty in years—but the note scrawled in his almost unreadable handwriting was the real gift.

He had not forgotten her, after all.