“You said you were bored,” he said. “You complained about your frock being unfashionable.”
“Did I?” She gave a dismissive wave, a precise replica of Aunt Sophronia’s. “I don’t remember.”
“Zoe Octavia,” he said.
She looked up at him, rolled her eyes, and looked away.
“You are as annoying as you ever were,” he said.
“So are you,” she said.
“I may be annoying, but I’m the one with the dashing curricle.”
After a moment she said, “Does it go very fast?”
“There’s only one way you’ll find out,” he said.
“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be a pest about it.” She let out a sigh. She tucked her arm in his.
The touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through him.
Gad, she was dangerous, he thought.
Still, he was a man of the world and a man of his word. He could deal with it. At the moment only one thing mattered: He was in charge of her, and while he was in charge, he could keep her out of trouble.
Marchmont House
A short time later
The porter, eyes wide, saw the pair crossing St. James’s Square, a female servant trailing after them. He summoned a footman and whispered in his ear. The footman hurried from the entrance hall and fairly flew through the green baize door and down the stairs into the servants’ hall, where he found Harrison, the house steward, reviewing accounts with the housekeeper, Mrs. Dunstan.
In appearance, Harrison was everything a duke’s chief of staff ought to be. He was tall enough to look down upon all the other servants and most of the house’s visitors. His long nose enhanced the effect. His black eyes resembled a raven’s: a little too sharp and too bright. The grey streaking his dark hair lent further dignity and probity to his appearance.
“Olney says His Grace is coming,” the footman said.
Harrison did not look up from the bill of provisions in his hand. He frowned, though, and the footman trembled at that frown.
As well he should. There was nothing out of the way in the Duke of Marchmont’s approaching his own home, even on foot. It was certainly not a matter requiring the attention of the man in charge of running the duke’s vast household.
The footman added hastily, “A female with him.”
Still Harrison’s gaze did not leave the column of notes and very large figures. “What sort of female?” he said.
“Lady,” the footman said. “Got a maid with her. Not one of His Grace’s aunts or cousins. Olney thinks she’s the one from the newspapers. Looks like the etching he saw.”
At this Harrison did look up. He exchanged glances with Mrs. Dunstan, whose lips pursed. “The Harem Girl,” he said.
Being servants, they were all aware of recent events. They knew their master had taken the Harem Girl under his wing. They knew about the thousand-pound wager with Adderwood. They knew about all of their master’s wagers. They knew all of his business.
The Harem Girl business was appalling. However, the nobility did have its whims, and working for the Duke of Marchmont was more lucrative than working for any other peer in all of Great Britain.
Nonetheless, Harrison could not be happy about the master’s bringing to the house a social anomaly.
A harem girl, as any servant would know, stood on a social par with ballet dancers, actresses, and courtesans: marginally higher in rank than a prostitute. On the other hand, Miss Lexham’s father’s barony was one of the most ancient in England. It was older, by a century or two, than His Grace’s dukedom, which was the kingdom’s third oldest.
Not that Harrison was ready to believe that the person who claimed to be Lord Lexham’s daughter truly was that lady. Others might be taken in by sentimental pieces in the newspapers, but he continued to take a dim view of the entire affair.
A proper lady would not visit a bachelor establishment without a suitable chaperon. A great many people would not deem a lady’s maid sufficient chaperonage in the circumstances. Having her mama by, or even one of her sisters or aunts, would have satisfied propriety. But no, the inconsiderate female strutted round St. James’s Square on the master’s arm, with only a nobody maid following!
Still, Harrison prided himself on never being at a loss in any situation. He couldn’t afford to be. The staff would interpret any sign of doubt or hesitation as weakness. In Harrison’s view of the world, servants were like dogs or wolves: They could smell fear and weakness. Then their fangs came out.
“I shall deal with the matter,” he said.
Marchmont’s entrance hall was a great, echoing cavern of a place.
The tall servant, Zoe noticed, did not echo as he crossed the checkered floor. He wafted in like an aroma—like the faint scent of beeswax emanating from one of the rooms nearby.
Her family’s London house was an elegant one and efficiently looked after. It was much smaller than Marchmont House, however, which sprawled over a sizable stretch of St. James’s Square. Lexham House, too, was more obviously the home of a large family. As diligent as its servants were, they could not always keep up with the endless comings and goings of Lord Lexham’s numerous offspring and their spouses and offspring. One might spy a shawl here, a book tossed there, a table or chair not precisely in the correct position.
Such was not the case at Marchmont House so far as she could see, though mainly what she saw was the entrance hall, a handsome public place, intended to awe visitors.
It was scrupulously—no, scrupulous was nowhere near the mark. It was fanatically maintained.
The mahogany doors glistened. The marble floor’s sheen gave it the appearance of pearl and polished onyx. The dark marble chimneypiece gleamed. The chandelier’s sparkle dazzled the eyes. Not a single speck of dust, she was quite sure, had ever been allowed to alight upon any surface in this room—or anywhere else in this great house.
The tall man presented to her as Harrison, the house steward, would be responsible for this state of affairs. Thanks to her sisters’ lectures on household management, Zoe knew that in the hierarchy of a great—or greatly rich—noble household, the house steward stood at the top of the ladder. He answered only to the master and his land agent. The house steward might be paid two or three times the salary of the next in status: the cook. Slightly below the cook and equal to the master’s valet stood the butler.
The structure was quite simple, actually, and Zoe had no trouble making a diagram in her head of all the positions, down to the very lowest ranks, of both indoor and outdoor servants, in Town or in the country.
It was simple, at any rate, compared to the intricate spider’s web and ever-changing alliances and hierarchies of Yusri Pasha’s household.
Harrison, clearly, did no actual work. The instant the duke removed his hat and gloves, a lower servant appeared, smoothly relieved the master of the articles, and vanished. Other servants hovered in the vicinity.
None of them showed curiosity or any other emotion. All seemed to be at their usual posts. All were correctly dressed and neatly groomed.
And all stood in a state of high tension.
Zoe could feel it. Marchmont seemed oblivious. No surprise there.
“We’ve only come for the curricle,” the duke told his house steward. “I’m taking Miss Lexham for a drive. Have the carriage sent round, and let Hoare know. He’ll want to give me a change of something: hat and gloves, I daresay. Meanwhile, we must remember our manners and offer the lady refreshment.”
He turned to Zoe. The afternoon light, which made rainbows dance in the chandelier, glittered in his pale gold hair. The one unruly lock had fallen over his forehead, making him look like a careless boy, and she had to fist her gloved hand to keep from brushing it back.
She remembered the touch of his lips. She had not yet quieted the urges the uncompleted kiss had stirred. She had enjoyed that teasing moment very much. She would have liked to enjoy it longer.
“I wish I could say I shall be but a mi
nute, but Hoare cries when I hurry him,” he said. “And if I dash out with the wrong gloves or hat, he’ll slit his throat. Why do I keep him, I wonder? Any idea, Harrison?”
“I would not venture to say, Your Grace. One might observe, however, that replacing Hoare with a valet of equally high qualifications would consume a great deal of Your Grace’s valuable time.”
“Harrison always knows the answers,” the duke told Zoe. “There it is in a nutshell: It would be even more bother to replace Hoare than it is to put up with him. I shall leave you in Harrison’s capable hands.”
With that, he sauntered across the hall and through the open door and started up a magnificent stairway.
Harrison flicked a glance at one of the hovering footmen, who hurried toward them. “Escort Miss Lexham to the library—no, no, never mind. That won’t do. No entertainment but books. The lady will find it dull.”
It was sly, very sly: disrespect couched in a seeming show of concern for her comfort. But no properly respectful servant would presume to know what a lady would find dull or say anything that might be construed as slighting her intelligence. Jarvis, behind her, understood what he’d done, for she gave a barely audible gasp, which she immediately turned into a cough.
The footman comprehended, too. Though he kept his face blank, Zoe saw the smirk in his eyes.
Well, this was interesting.
She beamed at the house steward. “How kind of you,” she said. “I never would have guessed that the duke’s library was a dull, musty old place. I supposed his collection must be one of the finest in all of England, and his library most elegant and comfortable. But you would know. Yes, I should like to wait in a room that is more pleasant.”
The footman’s smirk vanished, and he turned pale.
Jarvis made a smothered sound.
Harrison’s expression did not change, though his posture became a degree stiffer.
“The morning room,” he told the footman. “See that refreshments arrive promptly.” He bowed to her and wafted out of the room.
Neither woman spoke until they were comfortably seated in the morning room and the footman had run away.
“Oh, miss, I never,” Jarvis whispered. “What he said and what you said. His library musty.”
“It is not his library but the duke’s,” said Zoe. “He will do well to remember that. He should remember his place, always, and treat all of his master’s guests with the greatest respect. This much I know.”
“Yes, miss. He needed a setdown and you gave him one. But…well.”
“Do not be afraid of him,” Zoe said. “He is simply a bully. There is usually at least one in a household, though that one is not always at the top. You must never let such persons cow you, whether they are men or women. You do not answer to anyone but me. Remember this.”
“Yes, miss,” Jarvis said, looking about her doubtfully.
“There is no need to be frightened,” Zoe said. “I do not believe he will try to poison us.”
Jarvis’s eyes widened. “Good gracious, miss!”
“It is most unlikely,” Zoe assured her. “In the harem, they were always plotting to murder Yusri Pasha’s third wife, so disagreeable she was. But they were too busy quarreling with one another to organize a proper plot.”
“Oh, my goodness, miss!”
Zoe brushed off the maid’s alarm with a wave of her hand. “When my sisters were teaching me about running a great household, it seemed like the most tiresome of a number of boring duties. In a house like this, though, it could be most interesting.”
The Duke of Marchmont did not notice anything out of the way among his staff. He scarcely noticed his staff except when, as at the present moment, they were annoying him.
A full quarter hour after he’d left Zoe in Harrison’s care, the duke stood in his dressing room in his pantaloons and shirtsleeves, watching his valet take up and reject yet another coat and waistcoat.
“Hoare, we shall not drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour,” said His Grace. “No one will be taking any notice of me but the lady—and that will not last long. The fashion plates and fabric swatches will soon absorb all her attention.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but the lady—what is she wearing?”
“Ye gods, you don’t mean for us to match?”
“Certainly not, sir. But it is necessary to achieve the correct tone.”
Marchmont silently cursed Beau Brummell. Valets used to be sensible fellows before the Beau came along and turned dress into a religion. “Carriage dress,” he said impatiently. “Pale yellow with green trim. A year out of date, she informed me.”
The valet regarded him with a panic-stricken expression.
Marchmont did not know or care what had thrown the man into a panic. He only wished he had not hired the most high-strung valet in London.
They would be at this all afternoon and into the evening if the master didn’t take matters in hand.
“That coat,” he snapped, pointing. “That and the green waistcoat.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “The green, sir?”
“The green,” Marchmont said firmly. “It will amuse Miss Lexham.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, Your Grace.”
“When the lady is bored, appalling things happen. We must strive for a little inconsistency, perhaps a hint of originality. We do not wish to be thought dull, do we?”
“Good heavens, Your Grace. Certainly not.”
And at last, Hoare began to bustle.
Six
The duke made Jarvis ride with Filby the groom in the seat behind the carriage.
Neither servant was happy with the arrangement. This was perfectly plain to Zoe.
But she knew it was not Marchmont’s business to make servants happy. It was their job to make him happy, and judging by the set of his jaw, they were making a hash of it.
The groom, plainly, was mortified to be seen sharing his seat with a female. Jarvis, equally plainly, was terrified of the curricle and her high perch thereupon. But there was no room for her inside the carriage. It was built to hold the driver and a companion.
Zoe was not sure what the proper procedure was for a maid in such cases. She only understood that Jarvis must accompany her to the dressmaker’s, and this was the simplest way to do it.
In any event, it was Marchmont’s curricle, he was the master, and everyone else must like it or lump it.
If he did not want to keep his restive horses waiting, then everyone had better move quickly—or be moved quickly, as Zoe discovered.
His way of helping her into the high vehicle was to wrap his gloved hands round her waist, lift her straight up off the pavement, and toss her onto the seat.
She was still tingling from the contact when his big body settled next to hers. He muttered something about “damned finical servants.” Then, more clearly, he addressed the horses: “Walk on, my lads.”
Though they seemed as eager to be gone as he was, the beautifully matched horses set out slowly from St. James’s Square and proceeded calmly through the narrower and more crowded streets.
This sedate pace did not last for long, though.
The driver, Zoe was aware, was as restive as the horses. She had been taught to be keenly sensitive to a man’s moods. She was acutely aware of tension. The impatience or restlessness or whatever it was throbbed along the side of her body nearest his.
At last they reached a broader thoroughfare. The horses began to move, faster and faster. Zoe heard Jarvis shriek each time their pace increased. Yet they moved so steadily, stepping beautifully in time. They were big, powerful, high-couraged animals, yet Marchmont controlled them absolutely, without seeming to do anything. The lightest flick of the whip—and that not touching them—the slightest motion of his hands on the reins, were the only outward signs.
The wind ruffled the fair hair under his sleek hat. Other than that, he seemed almost still on the outside, all the power fiercely contained within him—something the animals, surely, sensed a
nd responded to.
The buildings and lampposts sped by, giving way to greenery, then buildings again. She held onto the side of the carriage as they passed riders, coaches, wagons, and carts and while the world went by in a blur, as though it were a dream.
It was like flying.
It was wonderful.
She laughed. She was a bird, flying, free. He glanced at her, and when he turned away he was smiling a little.
Then, by degrees, they began to turn into narrower streets again, and the pace slowed. After a time she recognized Bond Street, where Jarvis had found the ancient hackney.
Zoe had expected him to return to St. James’s Street, where Mrs. Bell’s Magazin des Modes stood. Mrs. Bell was very fashionable. She featured prominently in La Belle Assemblée.
But he turned into an unfamiliar street.
“Grafton Street,” he said, though she had only glanced inquiringly at him and he had not appeared to be looking anywhere but at the way ahead. “We start at Madame Vérelet’s.”
She was about to ask him who Madame Vérelet was when another vehicle barreled round a curve ahead, straight at them.
Marchmont saw it coming: an antiquated coach and four, overburdened with baggage and traveling far too fast for this busy street. It had shaved the corner of Hay Hill to half an inch, but then the vehicle went wide.
The duke easily stopped his pair in time, but the bloody fool on the coach box drove straight on at them. At the last instant, he pulled the horses hard to the left. He missed the curricle, but the weight on top of the coach shifted, overbalancing it. The coachman fell off his box. One of the wheelers shrieked at the same time the duke heard the crack of splintering wood. After that, it was difficult to sort anything out, amid the din and confusion. Horses plunged and screamed, people ran into and out of shops, shouting and shrieking and getting in the way.
Marchmont leapt down from the curricle, leaving his team to Filby, who was on the pavement as quickly as he.
The duke started toward the overturned coach. It had fallen on top of some of the luggage and lay precariously on a great trunk.