"Oh, well." O'Brien gave a dramatic sigh. "It's back to being your manservant instead of simply being your friend."
"I'm truly sorry about cutting your holiday short," Adam told him. "And you're welcome to stay if you wish, but I've had all of my sister's hospitality I can stand. She's already invited a half dozen of her lady friends to drop by this afternoon in order to take tea with the Bountiful Baron."
"I'm going with you." O'Brien got up from the table. "Bloody hell! Kirstin is either the most courageous or the most foolhardy woman I've ever met. I'll say that for her."
"At the moment she appears to be the most foolhardy," Adam said. "Because I'm not in a very forgiving mood."
"In order to save Lady Marshfeld's life, it would be best if we got moving before she comes down for breakfast."
"Yes," Adam agreed. He briefly scanned the front page of the newspaper, then folded the copy of the morning edition of the Times of London and slipped it in his coat pocket. There was no need for him to rush to read it before the other guests arriving downstairs for breakfast interrupted him. He had ten hours to read it at his leisure on the train. "That would be best."
The return train trip to Scotland took just as long as the first one. Adam did his best to catch up on the hours of sleep that he'd lost the night before, but this time the coach carried its full capacity of six passengers. Sleeping in a coach full of strangers was out of the question.
By the time they arrived at the Kinlochen station and hoarded a carriage to Larchmont Lodge, Adam's head ached from hunger and lack of sleep and from inhaling the soot from the smokestack on the train, and his arse ached from too many hours seated on the hard seats of the coach.
Hc was in a foul temper and not a man to be trifled with. Adam stared out the windows as the carriage made its way from the station through the village of Kinlochen along the post road, where traffic forced the carriage to crawl at a snail's pace.
A throng of people crowded into the tiny village as laborers whitewashed cottage walls and whitewashed leaky roofs. A group of carpenters were building fences between the village green mil the golf links, and painters were painting signs advertising the local tavern, cobbler shop, bakery, greengrocer, and butcher shops.
Adam was amazed at the transformation of the village. It was bustling with commerce and life. Down the street Old McElreath advertised golfing clubs and gentleman's golfing I clothing, and village boys signed their names to slate boards posted beside the stables and the railway station listing themselves as caddies for the golf links at Larchmont Lodge.
Adam nudged O'Brien's ankle with his foot. "Wake up and look at this."
Murphy sat up. "It's the village."
Adam leaned forward. "Those workers painting the front doors of those cottages look familiar. Are they ours?"
O'Brien nodded. "They're all yours."
"From the lodge?"
"Aye." O'Brien smiled. "Didn't you know? Crews of laborers come to the village to work every day."
"On whose orders?" Adam demanded.
"Yours, I thought." O'Brien read the surprise in Adam's face. "Gordon organizes work crews every morning. I thought you knew and approved." Murphy shrugged. "The good Lord knows the lodge has made a difference in this town."
"The lodge hasn't opened yet," Adam reminded him. "Wh| is financing this?"
"They are." O'Brien nodded toward the men and women in the village. "Now that they have work, they have money to spend, and they see the potential for new business once the lodge opens. But no one wants to holiday in a poor village with nothing to offer. Like you, the villagers of Kinlochen are gambling on the belief that the lodge is going to be a huge success."
"If it ever opens," Adam grumbled. "It's no wonder we're behind on our renovations. Our workers have been renovating everything else."
"Aye," Murphy agreed, "and it's worth it." He shrugged. "Besides, it all belongs to you. The village and the lodge."
He knew it was true, but Adam didn't want to hear O'Brien sing the villagers' praises, or admit that he hadn't given any thought to the village that accompanied the lodge or its commercial potential. All he could think about was crossing the threshold of the lodge and climbing the stairs to his bedchamber, where he planned several hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But opening the front door of the lodge and stepping over the threshold was like stepping into a world gone mad.
The lodge had undergone as much of a transformation in the last twenty-four hours as the village. Workmen were neatly dressed, their clothes pressed and their boots cleaned and polished. They doffed their hats to the maids when they walked by and a chorus of pleases and thank-yous and pardon mes echoed throughout the building. It was as if the rough-and-tumble laborers had all been magically transformed into choirboys.
And that wasn't all. Albert greeted them at the door, relaying the news, in a combination of broken English and French, that the plasterers were working on the ceiling of the main salons and that afternoon tea had been moved to the library. Afternoon tea for whom? As far as he knew, the lodge wasn't yet opened for guests. Adam looked to O'Brien for answers, but Murphy looked as bewildered as he was.
"Who is taking tea in the library?" Adam asked.
"The women," came Albert's reply.
"What women?" Adam asked again.
"All of them." Albert turned and led the way. "Follow me, sir."
He hadn't planned to go to the library until after his nap, but curiosity was a force stronger than sleep. Adam had to see it with his own eyes. And seeing was believing because the thing he had sought to avoid in London—a late-afternoon tea party—was in progress, and every maid in the house and every woman from the village looked to be in attendance. And this was no ordinary tea. His sanctuary, his library, had been turned into a ladies' salon where Brenna arranged the hair of a woman seated on the leather sofa while Isobel and George and eight other women sat in nearby chairs plying their needles on several baskets of mending, exchanging recipes and offering advice on fashion and the latest cosmetics.
The remnants of afternoon tea littered the massive library I able—at least he thought it was the library table. Covered, as it was, in white linen, crystal and china, and an overflowing vase of flowers, it was difficult to tell.
Adam removed his hat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Am I seeing what I think I'm seeing?" he asked O'Brien, who had followed him in the front door and now siood at his elbow viewing the scene. After almost no sleep and ten hours on the train, Adam was too tired to judge.
"I'm not sure," Murphy admitted.
"What does it look like to you?"
"It looks like every man's fantasy. Or every man's nightmare." He frowned. "It's a hen party."
"I can see that," Adam growled, "but what the devil is it doing in here?"
"Good afternoon, sir," Isobel greeted cheerfully as she saw Adam and Murphy hovering in the doorway. "Have you just come from the station?"
"Yes," Adam replied.
"Have you had your afternoon tea?" she asked.
"No."
"Would you like to join us? There's plenty."
Adam glanced at the tea table. There was indeed plenty of delicate little sandwiches and light, buttery scones and an array of little cakes and pastries to make a man's mouth water. "No, thank you," he answered, but his stomach growled, loudly betraying him.
Isobel got to her feet. "Here, sir, let me make you a plate," she offered.
Adam shook his head. "I'm going up to my room to lie down until supper, but before I do, I'd like to know the occasion for your gathering and why you invaded—uh, selected—the library."
"The workmen are replastering the ceilings in the main salons," the housekeeper answered.
"What about your room?" Adam demanded. "Isn't the housekeeper's room generally used for the purpose of entertaining staff?"
"Aye, sir," she confirmed. "But the workmen are wallpapering in my room."
"On whose orders?"
"Yours, sir."
"Mine?" Adam was genuinely surprised.
"Aye." Isobel smiled at him. "You told me to do whatever was necessary to make the housekeeper's room my own. I decided to wallpaper."
"I told you that weeks ago."
"Aye, you did," she agreed, "and I decided to wallpaper."
"When? Yesterday?" Adam was trying hard not to raise his voice or lose what remained of his temper.
"It seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution," Isobel told him. "After all, the plasterers were going to be working anyway."
Adam didn't understand the logic in that. What did plasterers have to do with paperhangers? He tried again. "Would you mind explaining the occasion?" He gestured toward the room full of women. There were two new faces, but he recognized the others, having met them when they were hired as kitchen helpers, scullery maids, and laundresses.
"There is no occasion."
"I don't understand," he admitted, looking to O'Brien for help. But Murphy simply shrugged his shoulders as if to say I he answer to the riddle lay somewhere beyond his reach.
"We take tea every afternoon, sir."
Adam was nonplussed by Isobel’s reply, and O'Brien fought to keep from snickering. Adam elbowed him in the ribs. "I suppose you do. I just didn't realize everyone did." He nodded toward the two women he didn't recognize. "I don't recall meeting those two ladies."
"You've a good memory for faces, sir." Isobel was impressed. "You haven't met them yet, but they are Martha on I he left and Sally on the right." The women got up from their scats and bobbed polite curtsies.
"And what do they do here?" he asked.
"I hired them to help Giana."
Adam automatically turned his gaze on George. She glanced up at him for the merest second before returning her attention to the embroidery in her lap. "I see."
"There is quite a bit for a chambermaid to do," Isobel reminded him. "Giana couldn't do it all alone, and besides . .." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I thought it might be a good idea to let someone else dust the breakable items and handle the china."
"Leaving George free to do the hard physical labor..." Adam didn't want to admit the idea bothered him as much as ii did. But there was no getting around it. He couldn't stand to think of George laboring to clean his house. He'd rather have her break a fortune in china than to have her scrubbing i he floors and cleaning fireplace grates.
"I assure you that Giana can manage it," Isobel hastened to reassure him. "She is tall and quite capable."
"What of Brenna?" he demanded.
"You just won't let go of that bone, will you?" Murphy hissed.
Isobel looked at him in surprise and replied, "Brenna is a lady's maid."
"Who arranges the hair and clothing of the other female employees."
"She must keep up her skills else she will be out of practice," Isobel said.
Adam narrowed his gaze at Brenna. How he had ever, thought he could prefer her to George simply because of her height and the color of her hair and eyes was beyond him. But she was safe. He knew that. With Brenna, there would be no surprises. One day would be very much like the next. All safe and quiet and dull. Adam exhaled. There was no doubt that she would be the better choice for him if all he wanted was safe and quiet, if all he wanted was a woman who would always defer to his greater knowledge and better judgment. Brenna was shy and retiring, the kind of woman who would never question his choices or push him to greater accomplishments.
Brenna Langstrom was all he'd ever thought he wanted in a helpmate, yet he wasn't the slightest bit attracted to her. She was pretty enough, in a quiet colorless way, while George sparkled with light and color—despite the fact that he'd never seen her in anything except black and white. What was it about George? What was it about her that made him go against his better judgment and want her? She was everything he'd always said he didn't want in a woman, and yet, she was everything he'd always admired. Christ, but he was tired. Adam raked his hand through his hair. Too tired to be debating with Mrs. L. or contemplating the mysterious attraction he felt for George. "Heaven forbid that Brenna get out of practice," he muttered, "even though there's no lady in residence to worry about." . I
Adam hadn't realized he'd spoken loud enough for Isobel to hear until she answered. "There will be a lady in residence one day, and I'm sure that lady will be pleased with Brenna's skills."
"Of course she will," Adam replied. "How could Brenna displease anyone?" Except me. "Now, if you'll excuse me, ladies, I'm going up to my room before I say anything more." His stomach growled again, louder this time.
"What about tea?" Isobel asked. "Shall I have O'Brien take you a plate after he deposits your luggage?"
Adam glanced over at Murphy who was carrying both traveling valises and who was every bit as tired and hungry as he was. "O'Brien has been traveling just as long as I have today. Please see that plates are sent up for both of us."
"I'll send Martha and Sally up directly."
Adam almost requested that she send George but thought better of it and changed his mind. There was no point in embarrassing George if she did break more china. And no point in tempting fate. He was tired and his defenses were weak. He might not be able to keep from kissing her if he had her alone in his room.
"Fine." He backed out of the library and turned toward the stairs with Murphy following close on his heels. Max caught up to them as Adam and O'Brien reached the marble entrance hall.
Adam groaned.
"Good afternoon, sir," Max acknowledged Adam, but typically ignored the fact that O'Brien was standing directly beside him.
"Please, not now, Max. I haven't had more than a couple of hours' sleep since I left here and I'm on my way up to bed."
"Understood, sir," Max empathized. "I simply wanted to inform you that you've nothing pressing on your desk to worry about. I've taken the liberty of handling your correspondence—"
"You what?"
"I've taken the liberty of handling your correspondence with the exception of the personal letter from Lady Marshfeld, of course, since you took care of that one on your own," Max explained.
"You're reading my mail?" Adam was shocked by the idea.
"Of course, sir. And I posted the letters you left on your desk. That is one of the duties of a private secretary. I've separated it for you into matters that must be handled right away and matters that can wait. I've also taken the liberty of rearranging your social calendar and weeding through the various requests for funds from myriad charities. I've made a list of the ones with which I am familiar and the ones I deem most worthy. We shall have to go over the others together—until I become more familiar with your activities and your routine correspondence." Max outlined the tasks he'd performed in Adam's absence, omitting the fact that he hadn't posted the advertisements Adam had written for all of the major American and European newspapers. "Is there anything else you require of me before you retire for your nap?"
Adam frowned. He hadn't required anything of Max to begin with. And he certainly hadn't required that Max imply that he was a doddering old fool who needed a nap every afternoon. He didn't need anyone to manage his correspondence or arrange his social calendar or tend to his charitable requests. "We'll discuss it later."
"Quite so, sir." Max clicked his boot heels together and bowed before withdrawing from the entrance hall.
"What do you make of that?" O'Brien asked as they climbed the stairs leading to their bedrooms.
Adam took his traveling valise out of Murphy's hands. "I can't make sense of it," he admitted. "This is either a bad dream or the whole damned place has turned upside down."
Chapter 21
A Princess of the Blood Royal of the House is always a gracious guest. She never seeks to cause her host or hostess any discomfort. She never makes unusual demands or allows any members of her retinue to do so.
—Maxim 483: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstetn-Karolya, as decree
d by His Serene Highness, Prince Karol V, 1641.
Downstairsin the library Giana patiently continued sewing as she mentally counted the minutes. She heard Max waylay McKendrick and O'Brien in the marble entrance hall on their way to the stairs and had seen Max walk by minutes later on his way to the room he had appropriated as his office—the room that had once belonged to the bailiff who oversaw the estate. "One thousand thirteen, one thousand fourteen, one thousand fift—"
"Miss Langstrom!"
His roar seemed to shake the rafters, echoing as it did off the marble floors. Giana expected it to rattle the windows in I heir casements, and knock the fresh plaster from the ceilings.
She looked up and met Brenna's gaze. Giana nodded and Brenna dropped her hairbrush and ran out of the library and across the marble entrance hall. They had worked out a plan. Unless he was specific in his request for her, Giana had decided that Brenna should answer the call. Adam McKendrick had instructed her to stay away from him on more than one occasion, and that was exactly what Giana intended to do for as long as she could.
174
"Not you!" Adam's shout stopped Brenna at the foot of the stairs. "The other Miss Langstrom. George!"
Giana set her embroidery aside and rose from her chair.
'Take this." Isobel thrust a plate full of sandwiches and tea cakes into her hand. "It might just soothe the savage beastie." Giana glanced down at the plate in her hand. While she appreciated the gesture, she knew it would take more than a few sandwiches and cakes to soothe this savage beastie, but she did not know what that something was.
She met Brenna just inside the doorway of the library smiled her thanks for Brenna's willingness to beard the lie in his den, then straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and stepped outside the library door. Giana's heels clicked against the marble floor as she crossed the entrance and began the climb up the stairs.
Adam took the plate out of her hand as soon as she reached the landing and pointed through the open door. "What is the meaning of this?"
Giana winced as she peeked inside the doorway. Wagner had been lying in the center of Adam's bed. That much was clear. The pillows and the bedclothes bore the impression of his head and body, and so did the shredded remains of a stack of London newspapers he'd been lying on, but Wagner was nowhere to be found. "What is the meaning of what?"