Chapter 26

When Torie woke up again, hours later, her husband was nowhere to be seen. Would he go to the House of Lords the day after

his wedding?

She rolled over and looked up at a ceiling painted with fat cupids, analyzing the painter's use of perspective before deciding

that yes, her husband had almost certainly gone to Lords.

What Dom was fighting for wasn't bibble-babble. He'd explained it to her. Still, she wished he had stayed home for the day.

After three "bouts," as he called them, she felt sore and a bit fragile, as if she had overused muscles that hadn't existed

before she married.

But she had to get up, so she pulled the bell cord and let Emily's familiar energy swirl around the room and get her into

a hot tub of water. Her lady's maid was feeling particularly dramatic due to being in a new household. Mr. Flitwick apparently

ran his household like a king governs his court.

"We stand until he seats himself," Emily explained, shaking her head—not negatively, but in surprise.

Torie sank a little deeper into the hot water. "The maid who brought our tea was very well trained."

Emily giggled. "Betsy came back down and said that she'd never seen the viscount looking so dazed. He's that in love."

"I thought she didn't even glance at the bed!"

Emily scoffed at that. "That's what eyelashes are for, aren't they? Before Betsy was in service with Lord Kelbourne, she served a countess who had a stream of men coming in and out of her bed at all hours. This house is so much better. For one thing, she's in the bedchamber next to mine. Not one of us has to share a room!"

"Marvelous," Torie said.

"She's infatuated." Emily lowered her voice. "You'll never guess who."

"I only met the grooms and footmen briefly yesterday."

"Mr. Flitwick himself!" Emily said, giggling madly. "He has to be thirty years older than she, and married in the bargain."

"Surely he's not—"

"Of course not," Emily said. "Never. Not him. Right proper he is. Fair, too. One of the footmen dropped a tray of madeleines

coming into the wedding reception yesterday. His shoe caught on that uneven board outside the drawing room, the one that's

sprung a nail."

Torie groaned. "Father kept saying he would summon a carpenter."

"The sweets were ruined, but Mr. Flitwick didn't say a cross word. He just sent the lad back here, to Kelbourne House, because

his knee breeches were scuffed. No one can have even the smallest smut or stain on their livery. It isn't allowed." Emily

smirked. "He mentioned that I was perfectly attired."

As a lady's maid, Emily didn't have to wear a snowy apron or livery; just now she was wearing a violet morning gown to which

she'd added a black neck bow in recognition of the household's half mourning.

"I always said you should be a viscountess's maid," Torie said, floating in the warm water and wishing she could stay there all day. If not in bed, then bath.

"Well, you didn't marry him for the title!" Emily said with another spate of giggles. "What would the viscountess like to

wear today?"

"Six weeks of half mourning remain," Torie reminded her.

"I suggest the white satin morning gown. It has that trim of black chenille."

Torie nodded, standing up and accepting a length of toweling. "I'll paint this morning."

"No," Emily said decisively. She was stripping the bed, but she turned around. "You'll need to assert yourself in the household

today, my lady. Mrs. Flitwick is nice enough, but she's used to having her own way. Last night, she told me that I should

choose a French name, as a true lady's maid to a viscountess had to be Frenchified." She snorted. "I told her that Emily was

good enough for my mother, and good enough for you too."

"Perhaps just—"

"No," Emily said, shaking her head. "I know how you feel about your paintings, but you're the viscountess now."

Torie sighed.

"Of course, you will spend time with Master Valentine and his sister."

"I plan to fire Nanny Bracknell," Torie remembered.

"Excellent," Emily said. "Assert yourself!"

Picturing Nanny Bracknell's sour face made Torie want to crawl back into bed, but Emily was bundling up sheets stained with

blood.

"These will stop anyone in the household thinking there'll be a six-month baby," she said with satisfaction. "Not that Mr. Flitwick would countenance an ill word amongst us, but he did have to fire a footman who was selling information to one of the gossip columns! News gets around, as we know."

"His lordship does not have an Italian mistress," Torie said. "I know everyone is chattering about it, but it's not true."

" We know the truth of it," Emily told her. "Last night Mr. Flitwick said that he doesn't condone evil gossip, particularly about

the family, but he felt it behooved him to clarify that issue. Isn't behoove a lovely word? He meant that he felt obliged to tell us the truth. Lord Kelbourne dropped that Italian woman long ago. Months

ago."

"How on earth did Mr. Flitwick know that?" Torie asked.

"The household knows everything, my lady. You'll have to remember that. Not that you'll be behaving like that countess with

a swinging door."

Torie digested that in silence. "I suppose they all know that I can't read, then."

"Indeed they do, because his lordship told them himself, the afternoon before the wedding. He said that if anyone made you

feel ashamed, they'd be dismissed without their last week's wages." Emily chortled. "Nicer than Sir William, I must say."

When Torie didn't answer, she added hastily, "Though Sir William was sometimes befuddled by drink and didn't know what he

was saying. Would you like to see Nanny Bracknell before Mrs. Flitwick?"

"Yes," Torie decided. "Give me five minutes to get my thoughts in order, and then send her to my sitting room."

"No one in the household likes the way she slaps the children, but his lordship didn't want to cut the twins' last tie to their parents. Mrs. Flitwick is looking forward to going over the linens and preserves with you. Apparently, the viscount can't get enough preserved lemons, but she has none on hand."

What was Torie supposed to do about that ?

"I shall take the twins out of the house in the afternoon," she told Emily. "One of the footmen should be ready to accompany

us with a purse."

Dismissing Nanny Bracknell took more than a few minutes, as the lady was determined to argue. Supposedly she had been trained

for a royal household and had lowered herself to work for Lady Dorney, and then for Viscount Kelbourne. What's more, she felt

very ill-used by the twins, as their conversation was unseemly and impertinent.

Torie was initially sympathetic—the children were certainly eccentric—but when the nanny declared that they weren't "normal,"

Torie stood up and gave the woman three hours to pack her trunk and leave.

"How dare you!" Nanny Bracknell snapped, looking as if she'd like to explode like a firework and burn the house down around

her.

"You are unkind and ill-tempered. You shall leave without a reference," Torie stated, asserting herself with a vengeance.

"As if I'd associate my good name with the Dorney household!" With that, the nanny stalked out of the room. Torie followed

her, finding Flitwick in the entry.

"May I be of assistance, my lady?" he asked.

"Nanny Bracknell is leaving us. I have given her three hours to pack her trunk, so I would be grateful if a footman could

bring it down from the attic."

Flitwick bowed. "Certainly, my lady. Would you like me to ask an agency to send three new candidates to the house?"

"Yes," Torie said. "You might specify that we would like a young and energetic nanny who is not easily horrified."

"Very good, my lady."

"I shall meet with Mrs. Flitwick now," she told him.

She wasn't looking forward to it. When Leonora left, the cook had brought her meal plans every week, but of course Torie couldn't

read them. To her relief, Mrs. Flitwick took her through the kitchen and the pantry without pulling out a single piece of

paper or even discussing numbers, other than to remark how quickly wax candles burned down.

Thanks to Dominic's warning, presumably.

"The house hasn't had a mistress for years," Mrs. Flitwick said, head deep in a cupboard. She popped back out with a stack

of linens. "His lordship never had time to consider such questions."

Torie smiled, trying to look as if she knew what the question was.

"These are all frayed, as you can see. If you approve, I'll send a groom down to sell them to a secondhand cloth merchant."

Her new husband didn't need the money. "I suggest we donate them to the Chelsea Orphanage," Torie said.

Mrs. Flitwick beamed at her. "May I do the same with the rest of the frayed linens?"

"Certainly."

"Shall I summon a linen merchant, my lady? A friend of mine, a housekeeper in the Duke of Lindow's household, brings an Italian man in yearly to select the new linens. It won't take more than a day to go over all the fabric needed in the house and country."

A day ? A whole day spent selecting new linens?

Mrs. Flitwick must have read her expression because she said quickly, "Or I can do that for you, my lady. I do know what suits

this household's needs, after all."

"I would appreciate that," Torie said, smiling. "My sister managed my father's house, and my mother died when I was young.

I shall lean on your guidance, Mrs. Flitwick."

She couldn't have said something more guaranteed to please. Mrs. Flitwick turned pink and chattered about the difference between

French and Italian linen until Torie finally managed to escape.

When she walked into the nursery, Florence and Valentine were seated at their desks, doing sums set by their tutor. On seeing

Torie, Florence jumped up and sang, "She's gone! She's gone! The wicked witch is gone!"

Torie had just enough time to brace herself before Florence cannonballed into her, clutching her around the waist.

"Sorry, but I must finish," Val said, scribbling at a sheet of calculations.

Torie came to look over his shoulder, but all she saw was a page of marks that dipped to one side.

"Can you read numbers?" Valentine asked, looking up at her. "Oh, sorry!" He jumped up and bowed. "My lady."

Torie held out her arms. Valentine froze, surprised, and then stepped into her hug. "Good morning," she said, giving him a

squeeze. "I cannot see numbers; they drip off the page like spilled tea."

"That is so interesting," Valentine said, gazing at her forehead as if he could crack open her skull and diagnose her inability to cipher.

"I thought we might go to Smithfield Market today," Torie suggested.

Valentine glanced back at his calculations.

"Taking advantage of the sunshine," she said firmly. "You'll like Smithfield. I have heard that it's muddy and noisy."

" All things that people of quality like ourselves are supposed to avoid," Florence said happily.

"On the Prohibited List!" the twins chorused, giggling madly.

"I thought we would buy a live rabbit," Torie said. "We'll bring him home and let him hop around the nursery so we can sketch

him for a few hours."

"Is that how you learned to paint their hind quarters?" Valentine asked. He waved at the rabbit on his easel, who looked vaguely

like a cat with long ears. But only vaguely, as no cat had dishpan paws.

"As a child, I spent my time out of doors looking at wild rabbits," Torie explained. "I have any number of sketchbooks full

of wild animals. Since Parliament is in session, we can't go to the country just yet, so the country will come to us in the

form of a rabbit."

"Will he sit still long enough to be drawn?" Valentine asked. "That book you gave me, Compendium Animalium , shows hares leaping, just as in your painting. We've begun Latin, but we're not good enough to read the descriptions yet."

"All we can say is do , das , dat —I give, you give, we give," Florence agreed.

Torie hadn't even realized the book she'd found was in a different language; she'd seen it in a stall in front of St. Paul's and liked the etchings of ani mals. She was always looking at books, wishing she knew what was inside. They were like treasure boxes that were forever hidden from her but open to everyone else.

"Where will the rabbit sleep?" Florence asked.

"We shall sketch madly for a couple of hours and then give him to Cook," Torie said.

"Rabbit stew," Valentine said approvingly.

"Let's go!" Florence shouted boisterously.

It was more challenging to exit the house than Torie had anticipated, never having taken children anywhere without a nanny

to dress them for the outdoors. Even with a maid assigned to the nursery, their coats couldn't immediately be found—until

it was revealed that Nanny Bracknell had packed their velvet coats and a good deal of other clothing into her trunk. Luckily,

she was still in the house when the coats were unearthed.

Flitwick kept his countenance, but the corners of his mouth tucked under when he reported the discovery.

"I didn't think about giving her her unpaid salary," Torie said. "Perhaps she was replacing lost funds?"

"You are too kind, my lady. I had taken it upon myself to pay the remainder of her salary," Flitwick said. "I might add that

Viscount Kelbourne began paying her double the going wage after she complained about the move to London."

Of course Dom would have paid double.

He had the habit of easing his way with generosity, even when it would be better to refrain. Thinking of the Duke of Queensberry

clowning around Bath in a pink suit with glass diamonds was irritating. Thinking of Nanny Bracknell being paid double when

she spent no time in the nursery was even more so.

The twins clattered down the marble staircase and arrived before her, breathless in their matching black velvet coats, just as Dom strode into the house. Torie whirled about. Surely he had told her that the afternoon debates weren't over until—

Their eyes met. He had also told her, once, that he planned to return home at luncheon and feast on her rather than food.

"Good afternoon, viscount," she said, dropping into a curtsy.

"Torie," he said. "Wife." He caught her around the waist and kissed her until she swayed against him, one hand coming up to

grasp his lapel simply to keep herself on her feet.

She pulled back with a gasp, thinking of Flitwick, the footman who was to accompany them, the children...

The butler and footman were staring resolutely at the wall, but now the corners of Flitwick's mouth curled up rather than

tucked down. The children were staring with as much interest as they might at a zoological exhibit.

"If you're quite finished greeting Torie, we are going on an outing," Florence said to Dominic.

Torie had the distinct impression that her husband would prefer to go back upstairs. Yet that wouldn't do. There would be

no going back to bed, not when the children were waiting in their nearly pilfered garments, hopping from foot to foot in excitement.

"We're going to Smithfield Market," she told him. "We plan to buy a rabbit."

The hunger in his eyes disappeared as if by magic. "You must be joking."

Flitwick's smile broadened. She hadn't realized the butler disapproved of their excursion to Smithfield, but then, she hadn't asked his opinion.

Torie drew herself up, playing the viscountess—imitating Leonora, if truth be told. "Yes, I am serious. We need a rabbit,

and I am told that Smithfield Market is an excellent place to buy livestock."

"Livestock." Dominic's voice was disbelieving. "If you wish to acquire a rabbit, tell the cook, Mrs. Cottage. She will inform

the butcher. My understanding is that he visits the house every morning."

"Several butchers do," the butler put in. "Mrs. Cottage feels that giving all the household custom to one butcher would encourage

him to take advantage. One of the three will be able to furnish a live rabbit."

The children wilted with disappointment.

"No. We shall go to Smithfield and find our own rabbit," Torie told her husband and his butler. "It's not just about the rabbit.

The children and I plan to get to know London. All three of us have spent our lives primarily in the country."

"You could come with us," Florence told Dominic, tucking her hand into his. He was wearing gloves, so his hands seemed even

larger in comparison to her slender fingers.

"He has to return for the afternoon debate," Valentine said.

Torie looked at her husband. His blue-gray eyes had the perplexed look that he showed so rarely, when he wasn't certain of

the right course of action. She had a feeling that she'd better treasure those moments.

"Do join us," she said. "It's not far, right in the center of London. I gather that one may buy cattle and sheep only on certain days, but rabbits are available every day."

"Yes, please ," Florence chimed in. "We are wearing our boots in the event of mud." She stuck out one booted foot.

"Smithfield," Dominic said with disgust. "There will be mud, all right."

Torie saw acceptance in his eyes; there would be no cavorting in their bedchamber until evening, so he might as well accompany

them to a cattle market.

"Flitwick, which carriage will take us on this excursion?" Dominic asked.

"The barouche, your lordship," the butler said. "I warned Mulberry to make sure his blunderbuss is primed, just in case. Simons

will accompany the family, as he knows the market. His father is a cattleman."

Mulberry was Dominic's coachman, and Simons presumably one of the grooms. "Is there really a need for a blunderbuss?" Torie

asked.

"Yes, because my viscountess is the most beautiful lady in London, and she is wearing silver in her hair, and pearls in her

ears, and an emerald on her finger," Dominic told her, a smile in his eyes.

"Thank you, darling," she said, coming up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips clung to Dom's with a promise of nighttime delight.

He was a grumpy man, her husband, but all the same, she saw a gleam of pure delight in his eyes when she kissed him. She would

never say as much, but she had the idea that he'd been lonely now and then. Occasionally.

Coming home from the House of Lords with no mistress and no family... just the memory of boisterous arguments to keep him

company.

His mouth claimed hers again.

"I'm fairly sure kissing is on the Prohibited List," Valentine observed.

"Not if you're married," his sister countered.

"Nanny Bracknell wouldn't approve."

"The wicked witch is gone, gone, gone," Florence sang, dancing around the entry.