Kitabı oku: «Regency Mistletoe & Marriages: A Countess by Christmas / The Earl's Mistletoe Bride»

Regency Mistletoe and Marriages
Annie Burrows
Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Countess by Christmas

About the Author

ANNIE BURROWS has been making up stories for her own amusement since she first went to school. As soon as she got the hang of using a pencil she began to write them down. Her love of books meant she had to do a degree in English literature. And her love of writing meant she could never take on a job where she didn’t have time to jot down notes when inspiration for a new plot struck her. She still wants the heroines of her stories to wear beautiful floaty dresses and triumph over all that life can throw at them. But when she got married she discovered that finding a hero is an essential ingredient to arriving at ‘happy ever after’.

Look out for Annie Burrows’s latest exciting novel, Captain Corcoran’s Hoyden Bride, available from Mills & Boon® Historical Romance in April 2011.

Dear Reader,

When I was writing this story, set during a Regency Christmas house party, I spent a lot of time considering what is most important to me about the season. If I’m not careful, I have to confess, I can get totally stressed out by all the extra shopping, baking and general organising that the celebrations can entail. But sitting down to really think about the themes of this story reminded me that Christmas, for me, is essentially about family. I want to spend time with them, see them enjoying the day, finding them that special gift that will make them happy.

The hero of the story, Lord Bridgemere, has, like me, very strong views about the importance of family. Even though he finds many of his own relatives hard to get along with, he is determined to do the right thing by them, at least at this time of year. Even if he has to do so with gritted teeth.

And a man who is so determined to do the right thing deserves to find a woman who can see past the outer, prickly shell. And love him for who he really is.

And so I wish you and your own family all the joys and blessings of this season.

Merry Christmas!

Annie Burrows

In this, the fifieth anniversary of the Romantic Novelists’

Association, I would like to dedicate this book to all those

writers I meet up with regularly at local chapters.

Since I have joined the RNA I have found your support,

enthusiasm, friendship and advice invaluable.

And, if not for you,

I might never have found out about PLR!

Chapter One

An Invitation is extended to Miss Isabella Forrest To attend the celebration of the Season at Alvanley Hall

Helen was tired and cold. The private chaise she had hired for the last stage of the journey across Bodmin Moor was the most uncomfortable and least weatherproof of all the many and varied coaches in which she had been travelling for the past three days.

She shot her Aunt Bella an anxious glance. For the past half-hour she had kept her eyes fixed tightly shut, but she was not asleep. Helen knew this because every time they bounced over a pothole she emitted a faint moan.

She had never thought of her aunt as old until quite recently. Aunt Bella had always looked the same to her, right from the very first moment they had met. A determined-looking but kind lady, with light brown hair shot through with silver. There was perhaps just a little more silver now than there had been twelve years ago, when she had taken Helen home with her. But in the months since their local bank had gone out of business, and all their money had disappeared into some kind of financial abyss neither of them fully understood, she had definitely aged rapidly.

And now, thought Helen with a pang of disquiet, she looked like a lady of advancing years who had been evicted from her home, endured a journey fraught with innumerable difficulties in the depths of winter, and was facing the humiliation of having to beg a man she detested to provide her daily bread.

The transition from independent, respected woman to pauper had been hard enough for Helen to contend with. But it looked as though it was destroying her aunt.

At that very moment a flare of light outside the coach briefly attracted Helen’s attention. They were slowing down to negotiate the turn from the main road onto a driveway, the wrought-iron gates of which stood open.

‘Almost there, Aunt Bella,’ said Helen. ‘See?’

She indicated the two stone pillars through which their driver was negotiating the chaise.

Aunt Bella’s eyes flicked open, and she attempted a tremulous smile which was so lacking in conviction it made Helen want to weep.

She averted her head. She did not want to upset her aunt any further by making her think she was going to break down. She had to be strong. Aunt Bella had taken her in when she had discovered nobody else wanted a virtually penniless orphan—product of a marriage neither her father’s nor her mother’s family had approved of. Aunt Bella had been there for her, looking after her, all these years. Now it was Helen’s turn.

Through the carriage window she could see, one crouching on top of each pillar, a pair of stone lions, mouths open in silent snarls. Since the wind which howled across the moors was making the lanterns swing, the flickering shadows made it look just as though they were licking their lips and preparing to pounce.

She gave an involuntary shiver, then roused herself to push aside such a fanciful notion. She had only imagined the lions looked menacing because she was tired, and anxious about her aunt’s health now, as well as already being convinced neither of them was truly welcome at Alvanley Hall. In spite of the Earl of Bridgemere sending that invitation.

He had sent one every year since Helen could remember. And every other year her aunt had tossed the gilt-edged piece of card straight into the fire with a contemptuous snort.

‘Spend Christmas with a pack of relations I cannot abide, in that draughty great barracks of a place, when I can really enjoy myself here, in my snug little cottage, amongst my true friends?’

Yet here they were, whilst the cottage and the friends, along with Aunt Bella’s independence, had all gone. Swept away in the aftermath of the collapse of the Middleton and Shropshire County Bank, to which all their capital had been entrusted.

Her feeling of being an unwelcome intruder into the Earl of Bridgemere’s domain only increased the further along the carriageway they drove. It had its foundation, Helen knew, in her aunt’s statement that the Earl was as loath to open up his home to his extended family as she was to attend the annual gathering.

‘It is about the only thing we have in common,’ she had grumbled as she wrote her acceptance letter. ‘A disinclination to go anywhere near any other member of this family. In fact, if it were not for his habit of going to Alvanley to preside over the Christmas festivities for the tenants at the family seat, nobody would know where to locate him from one year’s end to the next, so assiduously does he avoid us all. Which is why he issues these invitations, I dare say. We would run him to earth there whether he did so or not. And at least this way he knows how many of us to cater for.’

Though torches had been lit and set at frequent intervals along the winding driveway, ostensibly to help strangers find their way more easily through the rapidly falling winter dusk, the only effect upon Helen was to make her wonder what lurked beyond the pools of light they cast. What was waiting in the depths of the menacing shadows, poised to pounce on anyone foolish enough to stray beyond the boundaries the Earl had set for those he so grudgingly permitted thus far?

It seemed to take an inordinately long time before the carriage drew to a halt in the shelter of a generously proportioned porte-cochère. A footman in black and silver livery came to open the coach door and let down the steps. Her aunt slumped back into her seat. The light streaming from the porch lamps revealed that her face was grey, her eyes dulled with despair.

‘Aunt Bella, we have to get out now. We are here!’ Helen whispered in an urgent undertone.

‘No…’ the old lady moaned. ‘I cannot do this. I want to go home!’ Her eyes filled with tears. She shut them, and shook her head in a gesture of impatience, as though reminding herself she no longer had anywhere to call home.

Their landlord had visited promptly, as soon as the rumours began to spread that Aunt Bella had lost her entire fortune. To remind her that their lease expired in the New Year, and that if she had not the cash to meet the rent she would have to leave.

Leaving her eventually with no alternative but to apply to the Earl of Bridgemere—the head of the family—for aid.

‘That it has come to this,’ Aunt Bella had said three days ago, when they had climbed into the mail coach at Bridgenorth. ‘To be obliged to go cap in hand to that man of all men! But I have burned my bridges now. I can never go back. Never.’

She had sat ramrod-straight, refusing to look out of the window for miles lest she catch the eye of anyone who knew her. She had faced every challenge such a long journey had entailed with an air of dogged determination.

But it looked as though her redoubtable spirit had finally crumbled to dust.

Helen clambered over her, got out, and leaned back into the coach.

‘Come!’ she urged gently, putting her arms around her. ‘Let me help you out.’

Helen had to practically lift her aunt from the coach. And had to keep her arm about her waist once she had reached solid ground to keep her standing. It was a shock to feel her trembling all over, though whether from exhaustion, fear, or the cold that had pervaded their hired carriage, she could not tell.

A second footman materialised. He was a little older than the first flunkey, and dressed more soberly. Helen assumed he was the head footman, or possibly even the under-butler.

‘Welcome to Alvanley Hall, Miss Forrest—’ he began, in the bland, bored tone of an upper servant who had spent all day parroting the same words.

‘Never mind that now!’ Helen interrupted. ‘My aunt needs assistance, not meaningless platitudes!’

Both footmen goggled at her as though she had sprouted two heads.

She very nearly stamped her foot in irritation.

‘Can’t you see she can barely stand?’ Helen continued. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she snapped, when they just continued to stare at her as though in shock. ‘Make yourselves useful, can’t you? Get her a chair. Or…no…’ She immediately changed her mind as her aunt gave another convulsive shiver. ‘We must get her inside first. Into the warm.’

Her aunt blinked owlishly about her. ‘I do not think I shall ever feel warm again,’ she observed.

And fainted.

To do him justice, the head footman had very quick reflexes. And very deft, sure hands. He managed to disentangle Helen from her aunt before she lost the fight to keep her from slithering to the ground, and scooped her up into his arms with an insouciance that suggested catching fainting guests was a task he performed every day.

Then he strode into the house without a backward glance, leaving Helen to her own devices.

After tamping down a fresh wave of annoyance she trotted behind him, arriving in the hall just in time to hear him addressing a young housemaid, who had been scurrying across the hall with a pile of linen in her arms.

‘What room does Miss Forrest have?’

The maid’s eyes grew round at the sight of the unconscious woman in his arms.

‘Well, I just finished making up the drum room at the foot of the tower,’ she began, ‘but…’

‘Very well. I shall take her up there myself.’

‘B…but sir!’ stammered the first footman.

The head footman shot him one look, which was so withering it was enough to reduce him to red-faced silence.

‘Follow me, Miss…?’ He raised one eyebrow, as though expecting her to enlighten him as to her name.

But Helen was in no mood to waste time on introductions.

‘Hurry up, do! The sooner we make her comfortable the better!’

He nodded curtly, then demonstrated that he had caught on to the severity of her aunt’s condition by striding deeper into the house. He bypassed the rather ostentatious staircase which swept upwards from the main hall, going instead along a corridor to a plainer, more narrow stone staircase, with wooden handrails darkened and glossy with age.

Helen had to trot to keep up with his long-legged stride, and was quite out of breath by the time they came to a heavily studded oak door set into a small gothic arch that led into a perfectly circular room. With its unadorned ceiling, which contrasted starkly with the bright frieze running round the upper portion of the walls, it did indeed feel like being on the inside of a drum.

The footman laid Aunt Bella upon the bed, frowned down at her for a moment or two, then went across and tugged on a bell-pull beside the chimney breast.

‘Someone will come and see to Miss Forrest,’ he said curtly. ‘I really should not be up here.’ He stalked to the door, opened it, then turned to her. ‘I am sure you know what is best to do for her when she has one of these turns.’ He ran his eyes over her dismissively. ‘I shall leave her in your…capable hands.’

Helen opened her mouth to protest that this was not a turn but the result of exhaustion, brought on by the sufferings her aunt had endured over the preceding weeks, but the footman had already gone.

How dared he look at her like that? As though she was a dead pigeon the cat had brought in! And as for saying he should not be up here! She tugged the strings of her muff over her head and flung it at the door through which he had just gone.

Pompous toad! For all his quick reflexes, and the strength it must have taken to carry her aunt’s dead weight up all these stairs, he was clearly one of those men who thought that showing an ailing female any sort of compassion was beneath his dignity!

Unless he was just hiding a streak of venality beneath that cool, efficient demeanour? She had heard another carriage approaching just as they had been going into the house. It probably contained one of the Earl’s titled relatives. He had a score of them, her aunt had warned her as they had lain in bed the night before, neither of them quite able to do more than doze on and off because of the noise the other occupants of the coaching inn were making.

‘Each one more pompous than the last,’ she had said. ‘Lord Bridgemere’s two surviving sisters are the worst. Lady Thrapston and Lady Craddock are so starched up it is a wonder either of them can bend enough to sit down.’

Helen had giggled in the darkness, glad her aunt was still able to make a jest in light of all she was going through—and all she still had to face.

But she was beyond the stage of joking about anything now. With agitated fingers Helen untied the strings of her aunt’s bonnet, loosened the top buttons of her coat, and pulled off her boots. Aunt Bella’s eyes flickered open briefly as she tucked a quilt over her, but she did not really come properly awake.

Helen pulled a ladder-backed chair beside the bed, so that she could hold her hand while she waited for a maid to arrive.

Helen waited. And waited. But the promised help did not come.

She got up, crossed the room, and yanked on the bell-pull again. Then, in spite of the fact that the room was so cold she could see her breath steaming, she untied her own bonnet, shaking out her ebony curls and fluffing them over her ears, and peeled off her gloves before returning to her aunt’s bedside to chafe at her hands. Even though a fire was burning in the hearth it was making little impact upon the chill that pervaded this room. Her aunt’s hands remained cold, and her face still retained that horribly worrying grey tinge.

After waiting in mounting irritation for what must have been at least twenty minutes, she began to wonder if the bell-pull actually worked. They had not been quartered in the best part of the house. Even trotting behind the footman, with one eye kept firmly on her aunt, she had noticed that the corridors up here were uncarpeted, the wall hangings faded and worn with age.

This was clearly, she decided in mounting annoyance, all that an indigent, untitled lady who was the mere aunt of a cousin of the Earl warranted by way of comfort!

But then her aunt finally opened her eyes.

‘Helen?’ she croaked.

‘Yes, dear, I am here.’

‘What happened?’

‘You…had a little faint, I think,’ she said, smoothing a straggling greying lock from her aunt’s forehead.

‘How embarrassing.’

Her aunt might feel mortified, but the pink that now stole to her hollow cheeks came as a great relief to Helen.

‘You will feel better once you have had some tea,’ said Helen. ‘I have rung for some, but so far nobody has come.’

Lord, they must have been up here for the better part of an hour now! This really was not good enough.

‘Oh, yes,’ her aunt sighed. ‘A cup of tea is just what I need. Though even some water would be welcome,’ she finished weakly.

Helen leapt to her feet. Though the room was small, somebody had at least provided a decanter and glasses upon a little table under a curtained window. Once her aunt had drunk a few sips of the water Helen poured for her and held to her lips, she did seem to revive a little more.

‘Will you be all right if I leave you for a short while?’ Helen asked. ‘I think I had better go and see if I can find out what has happened to the maid who was supposed to be coming up here.’

‘Oh, Helen, thank you. I do not want to be any trouble, but…’

‘No trouble, Aunt Bella. No trouble at all!’ said Helen over her shoulder as she left the room.

But once she was outside in the corridor the reassuring smile faded from her lips. Her dark eyes flashed and her brows drew down in a furious scowl.

Clenching her fists, she stalked back along the tortuous route to the main hall, and then, finding it deserted, looked around for the green baize door that would take her to the servants’ quarters.

She did not know who was responsible, but somebody was going to be very sorry they had shoved her poor dear aunt up there, out of the way, and promptly forgotten all about her!

The scene that met her eyes in the servants’ hall was one of utter chaos.

Trunks and boxes cluttered the stone-flagged passageway. Coachmen and postilions lounged against the walls, drinking tankards of ale. Maids and footmen in overcoats clustered round the various piles of luggage, stoically awaiting their turn to be allotted their rooms.

Helen could see that there must have been a sudden influx of visitors. She could just, she supposed, understand how the needs of one of the less important ones had been overlooked. But that did not mean she was going to meekly walk away and let the situation continue!

She strode past the loitering servants and into the kitchen.

‘I need some tea for Miss Forrest,’ she declared.

A perspiring, red-faced kitchen maid looked up from where she was sawing away at a loaf of bread.

‘Have to wait your turn,’ she said, without pausing in her task. ‘I only got one pair of hands, see, and I got to do Lady Thrapston’s tray first.’

The problem with having a Frenchman for a father, her aunt had often observed, was that it left Helen with a very un-English tendency to lose her temper.

‘Is Lady Thrapston an elderly woman who absolutely needs that tea to help her recover from the rigours of her journey?’ asked Helen militantly. Even though a very small part of her suspected that, since she was the Earl’s oldest surviving sister, Lady Thrapston might well be quite elderly, she felt little sympathy for the unknown woman. She was almost certain that Lady Thrapston was getting preferential treatment because of her rank, not her need. ‘I don’t suppose she dropped down in a dead faint, did she?’

The maid opened her mouth to deny it, but Helen smiled grimly, and said, ‘No, I thought not!’ She seized the edge of the tray that already contained a pot, the necessary crockery, and what bread the kitchen maid had already buttered. ‘Miss Forrest has been lying upstairs, untended, for the best part of an hour. You will just have to start another tray for Lady Thrapston!’

‘’Ere! You can’t do that!’ another maid protested.

‘I have done it!’ replied Helen, swirling round and elbowing her way through the shifting mass of visiting servants milling about in the doorway.

‘I’ll be telling Mrs Dent what you done!’ came a shrill voice from behind her.

Mrs Dent must be the housekeeper. The one who by rights ought to have made sure Aunt Bella was properly looked after. It was past time the woman got involved.

‘Good!’ she tossed back airily over her shoulder. ‘I have a few things I should like to say to her myself!’

It was a far longer trek back up to the little round room with a heavy tray in her hands than it had been going down, fuelled by indignation. She set the tray down on a table just inside the door, feeling the teapot to see if it was still at a drinkable temperature.

‘My goodness,’ said Aunt Bella, easing herself up against the pillows. ‘You did well! Did you find out what was taking so long?’

‘It appears that several other guests have arrived today, and the servants’ hall is in uproar.’

Her aunt pursed her lips as Helen poured her a cup of tea which, she saw to her relief, was still emitting wisps of steam.

‘I should not be a bit surprised to learn that everybody has arrived today,’ she said, taking the cup from Helen’s hand. ‘Given the fact that we have only two weeks for all of us to make our petitions known, while Lord Bridgemere is observing Christmas with his tenants. And it is only to be expected,’ she added wryly, ‘that without a woman to see to the minutiae things are bound to descend into chaos.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only that he will not have either of his sisters acting as hostess,’ Aunt Bella explained. ‘Absolutely refuses to let them have so much as a toehold in any aspect of his life.’

‘He is not married, then?’

Her aunt sipped at her tea and sighed with pleasure. Then cocked an eyebrow at Helen. ‘Bridgemere? Marry? Perish the thought! Why would a man of his solitary disposition bother to saddle himself with a wife?’

‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ said Helen tartly.

Her aunt clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

‘Helen, you really ought not to know about such things. Besides, a man does not need a wife for that.’

Helen sat down, raised her cup to her lips, took a delicate sip, and widened her eyes.

‘I simply cannot imagine where I learned about…men’s…um…proclivities,’ she said. ‘Or why you should suppose that was what I was alluding to.’

‘Oh, yes, you can! And I do not know why you have suddenly decided to be so mealy-mouthed.’

‘Well, now that I am about to be a governess I thought I had better learn to keep a rein on my tongue.’ Once Helen had made sure the Earl would house her aunt, and provide some kind of pension for her, Helen was going to take up the post she had managed to secure as governess to the children of a family in Derbyshire.

Her aunt regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of her teacup. ‘Don’t know as how that will be doing your charges any favours. Girls need to know what kind of behaviour to expect from men. If they have not already learned it from their own menfolk.’

‘Oh, I quite agree,’ she said, leaning forward to relieve her aunt of her empty cup and depositing it on the tea tray. ‘But perhaps my employers would prefer me not to be too outspoken,’ she added, handing her a plate of bread and butter.

‘Humph,’ said her aunt, as she took a bite out of her bread.

‘Besides, I might not have been going to say what you thought I meant to say at all. Perhaps,’ she said mischievously, ‘I was only going to remark that a man of his station generally requires…an heir.’

Quick as a flash, her aunt replied, ‘He already has an heir. Lady Craddock’s oldest boy will inherit when he dies.’

‘So that only leaves his proclivities to discuss and disparage.’

‘Helen! How could you?’

‘What? Be so indelicate?’

‘No, make me almost choke on my bread and butter, you wretched girl!’

But her aunt was laughing, her cheeks pink with amusement, her eyes twinkling with mirth. And Helen knew it had been worth ruffling a few feathers in the servants’ hall to see her aunt smiling again. She would do anything for her dear Aunt Bella!

But Aunt Bella had still not got out of bed by the time they heard the faint echoes of the dinner gong sounding in the distance.

‘I am in no fit state to face them,’ she admitted wearily. ‘Just one more evening before I have to humble myself—is that too much to ask?’

Aunt Bella had prided herself on maintaining her independence from her family, in particular her overbearing brothers, for as long as Helen had known her.

‘All these years I have kept on telling everyone that I am quite capable of managing my own affairs,’ she had moaned when the invitation to the Christmas house party had arrived, ‘without the interference of any pompous, opinionated male, and now I am going to have to crawl to Lord Bridgemere himself and beg him for help!’

It was quite enough for today, Helen could see, that she was actually under Lord Bridgemere’s roof. It would be much better to put off laying out her dire situation before the cold and distant Earl until she had recovered from the journey.

‘Of course not!’ said Helen, stacking the empty cups and plates back on the tray. ‘I shall take these back down to the kitchen and arrange for something to be brought up.’

She had already asked the boy who had eventually dumped their luggage in the corridor outside their room if it was possible to have a supper tray brought up. He had shrugged, looking surly, from which she had deduced it would be highly unlikely.

So Helen once more descended to the kitchen, where she was informed by the same kitchen maid she had run up against before that they had enough to do getting a meal on the table without doing extra work for meddling so-and-sos who didn’t know their place. This argument was vociferously seconded by a stout cook.

‘Very well,’ said Helen, her eyes narrowing. ‘I can see you are all far too busy seeing to the guests who are well enough to go to the dining room.’ Once again she grabbed a tray, and began loading it with what she could find lying about, already half-prepared. ‘I shall save you the bother of having to go up all those stairs with a heavy tray,’ she finished acidly.

There were a few murmurs and dirty looks, but nobody actually tried to prevent her.

In the light of this inhospitality, however, she was seriously doubting the wisdom of her aunt’s scheme to apply to the Earl for help in her declining years. She had voiced these doubts previously, but her aunt had only sighed, and said, ‘He is not so lost to a sense of what is due to his family that he would leave an indigent elderly female to starve, Helen.’

But the fact that his staff cared so little about the weak and helpless must reflect his own attitude, Helen worried. Any help he gave to Aunt Bella would be grudging, at best. And her aunt had implied that had it not been Christmas it would have been a waste of time even writing to him!

Thank heaven she had come here with her. She shook her head as she climbed back up the stairs to the tower room, her generous mouth for once turned down at the corners. If she had not been here to wait on her she could just picture her poor aunt lying there, all alone and growing weaker by the hour, as the staff saw to all the grander, wealthier house guests. Helen was supposed to have taken up her governess duties at the beginning of December, but when she had seen how much her aunt was dreading visiting Alvanley Hall, and humbling herself before the head of the family, she had been on the verge of turning down the job altogether. She had longed to find something else nearby, something that would enable her to care for her aunt in her old age as she had cared for Helen as a child, but Aunt Bella had refused to let her.

‘No, Helen, do not be a fool,’ Aunt Bella had said firmly. ‘You must take this job as governess. Even if you do not stay there very long, your employers will be able to provide references which you can use to get something else. You must preserve your independence, Helen. I could not bear it if you had to resort to marrying some odious male!’

In the end Helen had agreed simply to postpone leaving her aunt until after Bridgemere’s Christmas party. After all, she was hardly in a position to turn down the job. It had come as something of a shock to discover just how hard it was for a young lady of good birth to secure paid employment. After all the weeks of scouring the advertisements and writing mostly unanswered applications, the Harcourts had been the only family willing to risk their children to a young woman who had no experience whatsoever.

‘I should think,’ her aunt had then pointed out astutely, ‘that if you were to tell them you mean to spend Christmas in the house of a belted Earl they will be only too glad to give you leave to do so. Think what it will mean to them to be able to boast that their new governess has such connections!’

‘There is that,’ Helen had mused. The Harcourts were newly wealthy, their fortune stemming from industry, and she had already gained the impression that in their eyes her background far outweighed her lack of experience. Mrs Harcourt’s eyes had lit up when Helen had informed her that not only had her mother come from an old and very noble English family, but her father had been a French count.

A virtually penniless French count—which was why her mother’s family, one of whom was married to the younger of Aunt Bella’s horrible brothers, had shown no interest in raising her themselves. But Helen hadn’t felt the need to explain that to Mrs Harcourt, who had indeed proved exceptionally amenable to her new governess attending such an illustrious Christmas party.

That night, though she was more tired than she could ever remember feeling in her whole life, Helen lay in the dark, gnawing on her fingernails, well after her aunt began to snore gently. She did not resent the fact they were having to share a bed yet again. It had been her decision to book only one bed between them on their journey south. It had saved so much money, and given both of them a much needed feeling of security in the strange rooms of the various coaching inns where they had broken their journey. And tonight the room was so cold that it was a blessing to have a body to help her keep warm. Besides, she would not have felt easy leaving Aunt Bella alone for one minute in such an inhospitable place!

If Lord Bridgemere could employ staff who would so casually ignore a guest who was far from well, it did not bode well for her aunt’s future. Not at all. What if, in spite of her assurance that he would not permit a female relative to suffer penury, Lord Bridgemere decided he could not be bothered with her? What would she do? Helen wished with all her heart she was in a position to look after her aunt. But the reality was that there were precious few jobs available to young ladies educated at home—especially educated with the rather eccentric methods her aunt had employed.

Aunt Bella had decried all the received wisdom regarding which subjects were appropriate for a girl to learn. Instead, if Helen had shown an interest in any particular topic she had bought her the relevant books or equipment, and hired people who could help her pursue her interest. So she could not teach pupils watercolour painting, or the use of the globe. And the post she had been able to obtain was so poorly paid she would not be able to survive herself were her meals and board not included.

Not that she minded for herself. She was young and strong and fit. But her aunt’s collapse today had shocked her. She had never thought of Aunt Bella as old and infirm, but the truth was that these last few months had taken their toll. And in a few more years she might well fall foul of some condition which would mean she needed constant care.

If her cousin’s nephew proved as cold-hearted as Aunt Bella had led her to believe, and as the treatment she had received since arriving appeared to confirm…

She rolled over and wrapped her arms about her waist.

Her aunt’s future did not bear thinking about.

Chapter Two

She woke with a jolt the next morning, feeling as though she had not slept for more than a few minutes.

But she must have done, because the fire had gone out and the insides of the lead paned windows were thick with frost feathers.

She got up, wrapped herself in her warmest shawl, raked out the grate and, discovering a few embers still glowing gently, coaxed them into life with some fresh kindling. Then she looked around for the means to wash the soot and ash from her fingers. There was no dressing room adjoining their tiny room, but there was a screen behind which stood a washstand containing a pitcher of ice-cold water and a basin.

Washing in that water certainly woke her up completely!

She did not want her aunt to suffer the same early-morning shock, though, so, having made sure the coals were beginning to burn nicely, she put the fire guard in place and nipped down to the kitchens to fetch a can of hot water.

By the time she returned she was pleased to find that the little room had reached a temperature at which her aunt might get out of bed.

‘You had better make the most of this while the water is still warm,’ she told her sleepy aunt. ‘And then I shall go and forage for some breakfast.’

‘My word, Helen,’ her aunt observed sleepily, ‘nothing daunts you, does it?’

Helen smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Aunt Bella. I try not to let it.’

She had discovered within herself a well of ingenuity over these past months, which she might never have known she possessed had they not been so dramatically plunged from affluence to poverty. Seeing her aunt so upset by their losses, she had vowed to do all she could to shield the older woman from the more beastly aspects of losing their wealth. She had been the one to visit the pawnbrokers, and to haggle with tradespeople for the bread to go on their table. Not that they had been in any immediate danger of starving. So many of the townspeople had banked with the Middleton and Shropshire that a brisk system of bartering had soon come into being, which had done away with the immediate need for cash amongst its former clients. The silver apostle spoons, for instance, had gone to settle an outstanding grocer’s bill, and the best table linen had turned out to be worth a dozen eggs and half a pound of sausages.

Once her aunt had finished her toilet, Helen tipped the wastewater into the enamel jug provided for the purpose and set out for the kitchens once more.

At least this morning there was an orderly queue of maids who had come down to fetch a breakfast tray. She took her place at the back of it, completely content to wait her turn. In fact she thoroughly approved of the way they all got attention on the basis of first come, first served. Regardless of whom they were fetching and carrying for. It was much more fair.

What a pity, she thought, her lips pursing, the same egalitarian system had not prevailed the evening before.

The kitchen maid scowled when it came to her turn.

‘I don’t suppose there are any eggs to be had?’ Helen asked politely.

‘You don’t suppose correct!’ her nemesis answered. ‘You can have a pot of chocolate and hot rolls for your lady. Eggs is only served in the dining room.’

Really, the hospitality in this place was…niggardly, she fumed, bumping open the kitchen door with her hip. But then what had she expected? From the sound of it the Earl of Bridgemere thoroughly disliked having his home invaded by indigent relatives. And his attitude had trickled down to infect his staff, she reflected, setting out once more on the by now familiar route back up to the tower, because their master was a recluse. What kind of man would only open his doors—and that reluctantly—to his family over the Christmas season? An elusive recluse. She smiled to herself, enjoying the play on words and half wondering if there was a rhyme to be made about the crusty old bachelor upon whose whim her aunt’s future depended.

Although what would rhyme with Bridgemere? Nothing.

Earl, though…There was curl, and churl, and…

She had just reached the second set of stairs when round the corner came the broad-shouldered footman who had carried her aunt so effortlessly up to her room the night before.

Instead of stepping to one side, to allow her room to pass, he took up position in the very centre of the corridor, his fisted hands on his hips.

‘I hear you have been setting the kitchen in a bustle,’ he said. ‘I hope you have permission to take that tray, and have not snatched it from its rightful recipient as you did last night?’

‘What business is it of yours?’ she snapped, thoroughly fed up with the attitude of the staff in Alvanley Hall. She knew they were not used to entertaining visitors, but really! ‘And how dare you speak to me like that?’

His light coffee-coloured eyes briefly widened, as though her retort had shocked him. But then he said icily, ‘Mrs Dent is most put out by your behaviour, miss. And I must say that I can quite see why. I do not appreciate servants from other houses coming here and thinking they know how to run things better…’

‘Well, first of all, I am nobody’s servant!’ she snapped. At least not yet, she corrected herself guiltily. ‘And if this place was run better, then I dare say visiting servants would abide by Mrs Dent’s regime. As it is, I deplore the way rank was placed above my aunt’s very real need last night.’

She had really got the bit between her teeth now. She advanced on the footman until she was almost prodding him in the stomach with her tray.

‘If I had not gone down to the kitchens myself, I dare say she would still be lying there, waiting for somebody to notice her! And as for situating a lady of her age up so many stairs—well, the least said about that the better! Whoever arranged to put her up in that room ought to be—’ She could not think of a suitable punishment for anyone who treated her beloved aunt with such lack of consideration. So she had to content herself with taking her temper out on the unfortunate footman, since he was the only member of His Lordship’s staff actually in range.

‘She is supposed to be a family member, yet Lord Bridgemere has had her stashed away up there as though he is ashamed of her! No wonder she has stayed away all these years! Now, get out of my way—before I…before I…’ She barely refrained from stamping her foot.

‘Do you mean to tell me you are a guest?’

Helen could not tell what it was about him that irritated her the most. The fact that he had ignored all her very real complaints to hone in on the one point she considered least relevant, or the way he was running his eyes insolently over her rather shabby attire, his mouth flattened in derision. If she had been less angry she might have admitted that the gown she was wearing was one she had kept precisely because it did make her look more like a servant than a lady of leisure. Her wardrobe would now have to reflect the position she was about to take up. Nobody would take a governess seriously if she went about in fashionable, frivolous clothes. She had ruthlessly culled her wardrobe of such items, knowing, too, that the more fashionable they were, the more money she would get for them from the second-hand clothing dealers. For, although the bartering system had worked up to a point, cash had been absolutely necessary to purchase tickets from their hometown to Alvanley Hall, and to pay for their overnight stops en route.

This morning Helen had also wrapped her thickest shawl round her shoulders, to keep her warm as she scuttled along the chilly corridors. She’d knotted it round her waist just before she’d left the kitchen, to leave her hands free to deal with the tray, and now she noticed that it was blotched with ash from when she had made up the fire.

But it was not this man’s place to judge or criticise her! Helen drew herself to her full height. Which was not easy to do when weighed down by a tray brimming with food, drink and crockery.

‘I mean to tell you nothing! You are an impertinent fellow, and—’

He raised one eyebrow in a way that was so supercilious that if she’d had a hand free she might have been tempted to slap him.

‘And my aunt is waiting for her breakfast! So stand aside!’

For a moment she thought he might refuse. But then something like amusement glinted in his eyes. His mouth tilted up at one corner in a smile full of mockery and he stepped to one side of the corridor, sweeping her an elaborate bow as she strode past with a toss of her head.

Well, really! What an abominable rogue he was! So full of himself!

And she could not believe he had goaded her into almost stamping her foot and actually tossing her head. Tossing her head! Like those village girls who loitered around the smithy in the hopes of glimpsing young Jeb Simpkins stripping off his shirt to duck his head under the pump. Who flounced off with a toss of their artfully arranged curls when he shot them a few pithy comments that left them in no doubt as to what he thought of their morals.

Not that she had been thinking about what the footman would look like with his shirt off!

Although he probably would have an impressive set of muscles, given the way he had so effortlessly carried her aunt up all these stairs last night…

She gave herself a mental shake. His physique had nothing to do with anything! He was a…a rogue! Yes, he was probably the type who snatched kisses from the kitchen maids and had stormy affairs with visiting ladies’ maids, she reflected darkly. Oh, she could well understand why they would elbow each other aside for the privilege of kissing that hard, arrogant mouth, and ruffling that neat light brown hair with their fingers. For he had that air about him she noticed foolish women often fell for. That air of arrogant disdain which drew silly girls like moths to a candle flame. An air she had observed more than once in men who thought themselves irresistible to women, and who therefore mocked the entire female sex for their gullibility.

Well, she was not silly or gullible! And she had never been the type to find a man exciting merely because he had a reputation as a ladies’ man. If she were ever to seriously consider marriage, she would want someone kind and dependable. Not a man who looked down his nose at women! And who was probably planning his next conquest before he had even buttoned up his breeches.

She drew herself up outside the door to her aunt’s chamber, out of breath and more than a little shocked at herself. She could not believe the way her mind had been wandering since that encounter with the footman. Picturing him with his shirt off, for heaven’s sake! Kissing kitchen maids and…and worse! Why, she could actually see the smug expression on his face as he buttoned up his breeches with those long, deft fingers…

It was just as well she was going to be a governess and not a ladies’ maid. She did not know how any girl was expected to cope with encounters with handsome, arrogant footmen as they nipped up and down the backstairs.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips as she turned round and bumped open the door with her hip.

She rather thought that any girl who was the least bit susceptible would start to look forward to running into that particular footman. It had been quite exhilarating to give him a sharp set-down. To knock him off his arrogant perch and make him look at her twice. And if all she had to look forward to was the dreary grind of service, then…

She shook her head.

She was going to work as a governess, for heaven’s sake! Flirting with the footmen on the backstairs was sure to result in instant dismissal.

Besides, the rogue worked here. It was unlikely there would be a man of such mettle working for a family like the Harcourts. Footmen of that calibre would not deign to work for anything less than a noble house. It would be very far beneath such a man’s dignity to serve a family from trade.

Which was a jolly good thing.

She did not set foot outside the drum room for the rest of the day. Her aunt dozed on and off, declaring every time she woke that she felt much better, though to Helen’s eye it did not look as though her spirits were reviving all that much.

Whenever Aunt Bella went back to sleep Helen sat by the window, making use of what pale winter sunlight filtered in through the tiny diamond-shaped panes to do some embroidery. There was little money to spare for Christmas gifts this year, and so she had decided to make her aunt a little keepsake, to remind her of their life together in Middleton whenever she used it. Fortunately needlework had been one of the subjects Helen had wanted to pursue. Largely because her mother had begun to teach her to sew, and her sampler had been one of the very few possessions she had managed to salvage from her childhood home.

She tucked her work hastily out of sight every time Aunt Bella began to stir, and occasionally broke off to watch the comings and goings of the other house guests. From up here in the tower she had an excellent view over the rear of the house, and the acres of grounds in which it was set. A party of gentlemen of varying ages went off in the direction of the woods with guns over their arms. A little later a bevy of females sauntered off towards the formal gardens which surrounded the house.

At one point she saw a group of children bundled up in hats and scarves, loaded up into a cart, and driven off in a different direction entirely from the way their parents had gone, their shouts and laughter inaudible from up here, but made visible by the little puffs of vapour that escaped from their mouths.

It looked as though the house party was now in full swing. She pursed her lips and bent her head over her embroidery. She had to admit that if, as her aunt surmised, all the guests had arrived on the same day, the servants might have some excuse for their attitude. They must have been rushed off their feet yesterday. Yet she could not quite rid herself of a simmering sense of injustice. She had only to look out of the window to see that His Lordship had organised entertainment for all the rest of his guests. Only she and Aunt Bella had been completely overlooked. Stuck up in a cold room in the tower and left to their own devices, she fumed, cutting off her thread with a vicious little snip.

Though later, as they prepared to go downstairs and mingle with the other guests for the first time, Helen knew that she must not let her poor opinion of him and his household show.

‘Time to face the music,’ Aunt Bella sighed, draping a silk shawl round her shoulders. ‘I still do not feel at my best, you know, but I cannot hide up here for ever. Besides, I need to collar Lord Bridgemere’s current secretary and arrange a private interview with him. The others will have already done so, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Because this was the only time of the year he made himself accessible to his relatives, they had to make the most of this brief opportunity to lay their problems before him.

‘I do hope it will not be too long before he can see me.’

Helen arranged her aunt’s shawl into more becoming folds around her shoulders, and took one last look at herself in the mirror. She had only kept one of her evening gowns. In a deep bronze silk, with very few ribbons or ruffles, she felt that it looked elegant enough to pass muster should her new employers ever invite her to dine with them, without being too eye-catching. Though naturally, since she had bought it in better times, the colour of the silk flattered her creamy complexion. And she had spent hours finding exactly the right shade of chocolate brown for the sash which tied just beneath her bosom to match the deep brown of her eyes.

But it was not vanity alone that had made her keep this dress. Its colouring gave her an excuse to wear the amber beads that had belonged to her mother. She had been quite unable to part with them when disposing of other items of jewellery. They might have fetched quite a tidy sum, but they were worth far more to her as a memento of her mother than any amount of coin.

Both her parents had died when she was only ten years old, of a fever she had barely survived herself. She had recovered to find their chambers full of creditors, stripping the rooms of anything that would settle their outstanding accounts. She had grabbed the beads from her mother’s dressing table and hidden them in her sewing case when she had seen what the adults all about her were doing. She ran her forefinger over them now, as she had been doing with increasing frequency over the past few months. They were a tangible reminder that she had been in dire straits before and come through them. Nothing could be worse than to find yourself an orphan, dependent on the whims of adults who saw you only as a problem they were reluctant to deal with. At least now she was able to provide for herself. And was not, like her aunt, reduced to turning to a wealthy relative for aid.

She whirled away from the mirror, reminding herself that the very least important aspect of tonight’s dinner was the way she looked! She must forget about her appearance and concentrate on keeping her tongue between her teeth. Though she still seethed with resentment at the way her aunt had been treated so far, she must do nothing that might jeopardise her aunt’s chances of getting into His Lordship’s good graces.

They were halfway down the first set of stairs when the dinner gong sounded.

A footman with all the silver lace—the one who had opened the carriage door for them the night before—was waiting at the foot of the second set of stairs to direct them to the blue saloon where, he told them, everyone gathered before processing in to dine.

Her aunt tensed as they crossed the threshold. And Helen could hardly blame her. The amount of jewellery on display was dazzling to the eye, flashing from the throats and wrists of the silken-clad females lounging upon sumptuous velvet sofas. She could not imagine what people who looked so affluent could possibly want from the Earl! Although both she and her aunt had taken care with their appearance, too. They had their pride. To look at them, nobody would know that they had not two brass farthings to rub together. Perhaps she ought not to judge on outward show.

But the boom of male voices definitely struck a jarring note. Aunt Bella rarely had men in her house. And to be confronted by so many of them at once set Helen’s senses reeling. She reached for her aunt’s arm and linked her own through it.

A slender young man with an earnest expression hastened to their side.

‘You must be Miss Forrest and…er…Miss Forrest,’ he said, bowing. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am His Lordship’s personal secretary, Mr Cadwallader.’

‘How do you do?’ said Helen.

Her aunt drew in a deep breath.

‘Young man,’ she said, ‘I would very much appreciate it if you could arrange for me to have a private word with His Lordship.’

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Though that may not be for a day or so,’ he added, with a smile Helen thought somewhat supercilious. ‘His Lordship has many demands upon his time at present.’

Lord Bridgemere did not participate in many of the festivities laid on for his guests, Aunt Bella had told her, since he was either hearing petitions or deciding what to do about them.

It could not be much fun, Helen thought. But then it served him right for reducing his entire family to such desperation! Besides, he sounded like the kind of person who did not know how to enjoy himself. Even if he were not busy he would still probably not join in with the country pursuits she had seen the others enjoying throughout the course of the day from her window.

Aunt Bella nodded, her air outwardly gracious, but beneath her hand Helen could feel her trembling.

‘I have seated you beside General Forrest this evening,’ said Mr Cadwallader to her aunt, ‘since I believe he is your brother.’ He consulted the sheet of paper he held in his hand at that moment, thus missing the look of utter horror that flitted across Aunt Bella’s face.

Helen gave her aunt’s arm a comforting squeeze. As if this whole situation was not painful enough, now it appeared that the most odious of her brothers was here to witness her humiliation. And from what she remembered of him, coupled with her aunt’s pithy observations over the years, he would be only too delighted to have the opportunity to crow over her downfall.

‘And he will be escorting you in to dine.’

‘He will?’ Aunt Bella gasped. ‘Does he know about this?’

For she had not spoken to either of her brothers for years. Twelve years, to be precise. And it was entirely because of this breach with her brothers that Aunt Bella had no recourse but to turn to the head of the extended family now she had lost all her money.

The secretary shot her a baffled look, before turning to Helen and saying hastily, ‘And I have placed you opposite your aunt, between Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw and Lord Cleobury. Sir Mortimer will escort you into the dining room…’ He trailed off, looking over their shoulders at the next person to arrive, and they felt obliged to move further into the room.

They had not advanced more than a couple of yards before Helen spotted the arrogant footman. One of the groups of gentlemen was breaking up, and he was moving from them towards the dining room doors, which the butler had just flung open. She supposed his duties would include circulating with drinks, and serving at the table.

Suddenly she became aware that the boat-shaped neckline of her gown was particularly flattering to her figure. And felt her cheeks heating at the realisation that he would have an exceptionally good view of her feminine attributes should he reach over her to pour wine.

What on earth had come over her? It had never occurred to her that a footman might look at her during the course of performing his duties. She did not think she was a complete snob, but never before had she thought of any servant as…well…as a man! What was more, she had never been the sort of girl who craved male attention. Her aunt was not of the opinion that it was every young lady’s duty to marry as soon as possible, so had not encouraged her to mix with the so-called eligible young men of their district. And what she had observed of masculine behaviour, from a decorous distance, had given her no reason to kick against her aunt’s prejudice against the entire sex.

Yet every time she saw this footman her thoughts began to wander into most improper territory!

Full of chagrin, she plucked up her shawl and settled it over her shoulders, making sure that it covered her bosom.

‘Cold, love?’ her aunt asked.

‘Um…a little,’ she said. Then, because she hated being untruthful, ‘Though I think it is mainly nerves that are making me shiver.’

‘I know what you mean,’ her aunt murmured.

She glanced once more at the footman, warily. He was standing in the doorway, tugging his wristbands into place as, wooden-faced, he watched the assembled ladies rise to their feet and begin to gravitate towards the dining room.

‘So, Bella, you have decided to show your face in society again, have you?’

The booming voice of the ruddy-faced man who stood glaring down at her aunt jerked Helen’s attention away from the fascinating footman. General Forrest was, naturally, older than Helen remembered him, though not a whit less intimidating.

He had not stopped shouting, so far as she could recall, from the moment she had arrived on his doorstep until the moment she’d left. ‘The girl’s mother has plenty of other sisters!’ was the first thing she could remember him bellowing at his wife, who had shivered like an aspen leaf under the force of his fury. ‘Pack her off to one of them!’

He had then slammed back into his study, where he’d carried on shouting at whoever was inside. When Isabella had eventually emerged, head high, lips pressed tightly together and a suspicious sheen in her eyes, the ten-year-old Helen had immediately felt a strong sense of kinship with her.

She had knelt down in the hall, looked the tearful Helen in the eye, and said, ‘Would you like to come home with me? I should love to have a little girl to call my own. Without—’ and she had glared darkly up at her glowering brother ‘—having to go through the horrid experience of having to marry some repulsive man to get one.’

Since the General had already made it perfectly clear he did not want to be saddled with a half-French brat, she had slipped her hand into that of the older woman.

‘If you insist on taking on my wife’s niece, on top of all the other outrageous things you have done, then you will have only yourself to blame if I cut you out of my life!’ he had bellowed.

They had not looked back. And, just before slamming the door shut on them, the last words he had uttered were, ‘That’s it! I wash my hands of you, Bella!’

As a child, General Forrest had seemed enormous to her. And, though Helen no longer had to crane her neck to look up at him, the years had added to his bulk, so that he still seemed like a very big man.

But he did not intimidate her aunt, who lifted her chin and glared straight back.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.’

‘Harrumph!’ he replied, holding out his arm for her to take.

He completely ignored Helen. She battened down her sense of affront. Not only was she going to have to inure herself to a lifetime of snubs once she became a governess, but General Forrest had never thought much of her in the first place.

Helen looked beyond the General’s bulk and saw, hovering in his shadow, the thin, anxious woman Helen dimly remembered as her real aunt.

A bored-looking man materialised at Helen’s side, led her into the dining room, and showed her to a seat about halfway along the table. She assumed he must be Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw, though he did not deign to introduce himself or attempt to make conversation. It was galling to think that even he looked down his nose at her, she reflected bitterly. Though they both occupied the lowest social position, so he could only be another of the Earl’s poor relations.

They all stood in silence behind their chairs, heads bowed, while an absurdly young clergyman said grace.

Helen could not help glancing down to the foot of the table, where an extremely haughty-looking woman who was dripping in diamonds and sapphires was taking her seat, and then turning to take her first look at her host, the head of her aunt’s extended family. The man who held her aunt’s entire future in his hands.

And felt her jaw drop.

Because, just being eased into the chair at the head of the table by the stately elderly butler who had earlier thrown open the doors to the dining room and declared dinner was served, was…

The man she had assumed from the first moment she had clapped eyes on him to be nothing more than a footman!

Chapter Three

How could he be so young?

When her aunt had spoken of her nephew, the head of her family, she had made him sound like a curmudgeonly old misanthrope of at least fifty years. Lord Bridgemere could not be a day over thirty.

And why did he not dress like an earl?

He was one of the wealthiest men in the country! She would have thought he’d be the most finely dressed man in the place. Whereas he was the most plainly, soberly attired of all the men at table. He did not so much as sport a signet ring.

Well, now she knew exactly what foreign visitors to England meant when they complained that it was hard to tell the difference between upper servants and their masters, because of the similarity of dress. Not that she was a foreigner. Just a stranger to the ways of grand houses like this.

And he did not act like an earl, either! What had he been about, carting her aunt upstairs, when there was a perfectly genuine footman on hand to perform that office? And as for loitering about on the backstairs…well, she simply could not account for it!

The Earl turned his head and looked directly at her. And she realised she was the only person still standing. And, what was more, staring at the Earl of Bridgemere with her mouth hanging open.

She sat down swiftly, her cheeks flushing hot. Oh, heavens, what must everyone think?

And what did he think? Did he find it amusing to masquerade as a servant and humiliate his guests? What an odious, unkind…If he was laughing at her, she did not care what anyone else thought of her, she would…she would…

She darted him an inimical glare. Only to find that he was talking to the lady on his left-hand side, a completely bland expression on his face, as though nothing untoward had occurred.

She felt deflated. And foolish.

But at least he had not exposed her to ridicule by any look, or word, or…

No, she groaned inwardly. She had managed to make herself look ridiculous all on her own!

Though it had been partly his fault. Why had he not introduced himself properly? Why had he let her rip up at him like that?

She tore her eyes from his and made an effort to calm herself while the real footmen bustled about with plates and tureens and chafing dishes.

Lord Bridgemere struggled to pretend that he was not painfully aware of Miss Forrest’s discomfiture. What the devil had come over him this morning that he had bowed and grinned and left her thinking he was merely one of his own servants? She had been so shocked just now, upon realising her error, that she had made a complete spectacle of herself. And no gentleman would willingly expose any lady to such public humiliation.

Though how could he have guessed she would just stand there, gaping at him like that? Or that she would then glare at him, making it obvious to all that he had somehow, at some point, offered her some form of insult? None of the other ladies of his acquaintance would ever be so transparent.

No, they all hid behind their painstakingly constructed masks. The only expression they ever showed in public was mild boredom.

He fixed his gaze on his dinner companion, his sister Lady Craddock, although his mind was very far from her interminable complaining. Instead he was remembering the way thoughts of Miss Forrest imperiously ordering him about had kept on bringing a frisson of amusement to his mind, briefly dispelling the tedium of his day. When he had discovered he had made an error of a similar nature to hers, it had struck him as so funny that he had wanted to prolong the joke. He had even pencilled her name into his diary to remind himself, as if he needed any reminder, to make his way down to his study at precisely the same time he had run into her that morning in the hopes of encountering her again.

Extraordinary.

Most people would say he had no sense of humour whatever.

But they might, with some justification, accuse him of wishing to revel in the novel experience of having a woman react to him as just a man, and not as the Earl of Bridgemere. The wealthy, eligible Earl of Bridgemere. And it had been a novel experience. Miss Forrest had not simpered and flattered. No, she had roundly berated him, her dark eyes flashing fire.

He had thought then what an expressive face she had. He had been able to see exactly what she was thinking. Not that he’d needed to guess. She had already been telling him!

Somewhere inside he felt the ghost of a smile trying to break free. Naturally he stifled it, swiftly. It would not do to smile whilst engaged in conversation with either of his sisters. The slightest outward sign that he might be interested in anything either of them had to say would rouse the other to a pitch of jealousy that would make the entire company so uncomfortable they would all be running for cover.

Even now, though, he could tell exactly what emotions Miss Forrest was grappling with. Chief amongst them was chagrin, now that her initial spurt of anger with him had simmered down.

She was quite unlike any of the other guests, all of whom wore the fashionable demeanour of boredom to cloak their dissatisfaction. And they were all of them dissatisfied with their lot, in one way or another. Which irked him beyond measure! They all had so much in comparison with the vast majority of the citizens of this country. Yet they still demanded more.

And Miss Forrest and her older namesake could not be so very different—not deep down, where it mattered. Or they would not be here. It would pay him to remember that.

Only once she felt more in control of herself did Helen raise her head and look about the table. There were at least forty people ranged along its length. For a while conversation was desultory, as the guests helped themselves to generous portions of the vast selection of delicacies on offer. Her aunt looked as uncomfortable as she felt, seated between her brother the General, who was applying himself to his plate with complete concentration, and a man who was conducting a very animated flirtation with the young lady seated on his other side.

It was during the second remove that the General remarked, ‘I am surprised at you for bringing that person here, Bella,’ motioning at Helen across the table with his fork.

Aunt Bella bristled, while Helen just froze. She had felt uncomfortable enough knowing that she had made such an error of judgement about the station of the man who had turned out to be her host. And in then betraying her consternation by standing there gaping at him like a nodcock. Now, since the General had one of those voices that carried, several other conversations at the table abruptly ceased, and she felt as though once again everyone was staring at her.

‘Are you?’ replied her aunt repressively. ‘I cannot imagine why.’

‘I suppose nothing you do ought to shock me any more, Bella,’ said the General witheringly. ‘You still enjoy courting scandal, do you not?’

‘Even if that were true,’ Aunt Bella replied with a tight smile, ‘which it most emphatically is not, no true gentleman would even touch upon such a topic in company.’

Helen had the satisfaction of seeing the General flush darkly and shift uncomfortably in his seat.

But it was outweighed by the fact that she could also see her aunt’s hands were trembling.

There was a moment of tense silence, punctuated only by the genteel clink of sterling silver cutlery on porcelain. Then the lady at the foot of the table drawled, ‘The mutton is exceptionally well presented this evening, Bridgemere. You must compliment your cook.’

‘I shall certainly do so, Lady Thrapston,’ said the Earl dryly, ‘since you request it.’

For some reason this comment, or perhaps the way it was delivered, made the haughty woman look quite put out.

Lady Thrapston, Helen noted with resentment as she recalled the way Aunt Bella had been neglected upon her arrival, could in no way be described as elderly. She was so stylish that if people did not look too closely, they might take her for a fairly young woman.

There was another uncomfortable pause in the conversation before a few of the younger men, led by a gaudily dressed youth who sat at Lady Thrapston’s right hand, began to discuss the day’s shooting.

Though the atmosphere had lightened to some extent, Helen was mightily relieved when the meal drew to an end and Lady Thrapston signalled to the other ladies that it was time to withdraw by the simple expedient of getting to her feet.

Helen hurried to the doorway, and waited for her aunt to catch up with her there.

‘I am in no condition to go to the drawing room and face any more of that,’ said her aunt in an undertone. ‘Not after the shock of discovering my odious brother is here!’

Thank heavens for that, thought Helen. But only said, ‘I shall help you up to bed, then.’

They left the room arm in arm, and were ascending the first set of stairs when Helen said, ‘Would you mind very much if I were to leave you for a little while?’

Aunt Bella’s brows rose. ‘You surely do not want to face that drawing room without me?’

‘No!’ She barely repressed a shudder. ‘I most certainly do not!’

She chewed on her lower lip, wondering how much to confess to her aunt. She did not want to add to her worries by admitting she had mistaken Lord Bridgemere for one of his footmen and called him an impudent fellow. She cringed as the scene flooded back to her in all its inglorious detail.

‘I have decided it would be a good idea if I had a word with that secretary fellow, that is all…’ she began. She wanted to see if she could arrange an interview of her own, through his secretary, and get in an apology to Lord Bridgemere before he spoke to Aunt Bella. She would hate to think that her behaviour might prejudice him against her aunt in any way.

‘Oh, Helen, what a good idea! I would be so relieved to learn exactly when I shall be able to speak with Lord Bridgemere. I do not think I shall rest easy until I have laid my case before him. And you are such a pretty girl. I am sure you could persuade the young man to arrange for me to see His Lordship before my brother has a chance to turn him against me. I could not believe he would be so unmannerly as to attack me like that over dinner! It shook me, I can tell you.’

Helen had never felt more uncomfortable than to hear the erroneous assumption her aunt had made.

Yet she did nothing to correct it. It would mean making too many explanations, which she was not sure would be helpful to anyone.

Fortunately it took quite some time to run Mr Cadwallader to ground, by which time Helen had managed to regain her composure.

Though he had dined with the guests, he had retreated almost immediately afterwards to a small book-lined room in the servants’ hall.

‘I am so sorry to bother you,’ she said, knocking upon the door and putting her head round without waiting for him to reply, ‘but I was wondering if it would be possible for me to have a private interview with His Lordship. As soon as possible. At least…before whatever time you have arranged for him to speak with my aunt.’

Mr Cadwallader looked up from the pile of papers he was working on and frowned.

‘Miss Forrest, is it not?’ He flipped open a leather-bound ledger and ran his finger down the page at which it opened. His brows shot up.

‘Miss Helen Forrest?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded.

‘It appears His Lordship has already anticipated your request. He has your name here for seven o clock tomorrow morning.’

‘He has?’ She swallowed nervously. What did that mean? And was it a coincidence that he had her name down for seven? The approximate time at which she had run into him on the backstairs that very morning?

Forcing a smile, she said, ‘Good. Wh…where shall I…?’

‘Oh, you had better come in here, if he wishes to speak with you that early,’ said the young man, snapping the book shut. ‘His Lordship always comes down first thing to see to business before—’ He pulled himself up, as though he had been on the point of committing an indiscretion, rose to his feet, and ushered her to the door.

Helen racked her brains as she returned to her room, but could not come up with any reason why he should have decided to arrange a meeting with her that boded anything but ill for her and her aunt. But at least she could see what he might have been doing on the backstairs. Those stairs were probably the most direct route from his secretary’s office to his own room. He had probably been on his way down to that office, to see to whatever business he needed to get out of the way before…whatever else it was he did all day when he had a houseful of guests. None of whom, to judge by the set of his face at table, were any more welcome to him than she was. Her aunt had hit the nail on the head when she had described him as a man of solitary disposition. It was not only the plainness of his clothing that set him apart from the rest of the persons gathered about that table. An air of complete insularity cloaked him like a mantle.

And all she had accomplished during the two altercations she’d had with him had been to put herself at the head of the list of people who annoyed him. Oh, bother! Why was she always letting her temper get the better of her? And why did she have to have lost it with him, of all men? It was her French blood, her aunt would have said. She always blamed her French blood whenever she got into mischief.

She spent another rather restless night, and was pitched even deeper into gloom when she studied her reflection in the mirror the next morning. Somehow she felt that she would have a better chance to make her case without those awful dark smudges beneath her eyes.

But there was nothing she could do about them. She would simply have to appeal to the Earl’s sense of fair play and hope that the General had not managed to turn him against her aunt at some time during the preceding evening.

If her own behaviour had not already done so.

She managed to find her way back down to Mr Cadwallader’s office without a hitch. As she summoned up all her courage to knock on the door, she reflected that at least her experiences here were good preparation for her new role in life. She was having plenty of practice at taking backstairs, and haunting servants’ quarters!

‘Come in,’ she heard the Earl say from behind the closed door.

She stepped into the room, turning and shutting the door behind her swiftly before anyone saw her. For some reason she did not want anyone to know she had arranged this interview. Not that there was any risk from the rest of the house guests, none of whom were early risers.

But one of the servants might have seen her, and…Oh, bother it all! She spun round, lifted her chin, and faced the Earl, who was sitting behind his desk, idly twirling a pen between his long, supple fingers. What did it matter who saw her come here? She had every right to speak to the man…

Besides, he had been the one to send for her, had he not? Or would have if she had not spoken to his secretary first.

Lord Bridgemere made a motion with his pen towards the chair which was placed in front of his desk, which she interpreted as a signal to sit on it. On rather shaky legs she walked to it, and sank onto it gratefully, placing the candle she had used to light her way down on the floor by her feet.

He could see she was nervous. As well she might be, sneaking down here to meet him unchaperoned. She had taken care to make sure nobody had seen her, though, so at least she was not intending to attempt to compromise him. Still, he was going to take great care that she did not suspect he found her attractive, lest it occur to her to try her luck with him. She would not be the first young female to inveigle her way into one of his house parties with the intention of tempting him to abandon his single state. Though usually it was Lady Thrapston who brought them.

A horrible suspicion struck him then. Might Lady Thrapston have dragged the older Miss Forrest into her matchmaking schemes? Was this lovely young woman the bait by which he was to be hooked? He must observe the interaction between the two ladies closely over the next few days, to see whether they were engaged in some form of conspiracy. His sister might have finally realised that he would strenuously resist any female introduced to him by her, no matter how fetching he found her, and switched to a more subtle approach.

Helen was glad she had draped her thickest shawl round her shoulders before setting out from the little tower room, having checked this time that there was no soot on it. She had known the corridors would strike chill at this time of day, and the fire in this room had barely got going. Nobody had been in to light the candles, either. There was just her own nightstick upon the floor, and one very similar on the desk between them. It made the setting somehow very intimate. To think of them sitting alone down here, before anyone else was stirring, just barely able to make out anything in the rest of the room…

She shifted self-consciously in her chair, drawing the shawl more tightly round her shoulders.

Lord Bridgemere made no comment, merely lifted one eyebrow as he regarded her rather tatty shawl in that supercilious way that had so incensed her when she had thought he was a footman.

Mutinously she lifted her chin, and ran her eyes over his own attire. He obviously intended going out riding. There was a whip and a pair of gloves lying on the table. But his jacket was of rough material, and the woollen scarf he had knotted loosely at his throat made him look more like a groom than the lord of the manor!

Their silent duel might have gone on indefinitely had not an odd, plaintive noise emanating from the direction of the fireplace drawn her attention. It appeared to be coming from a heap of mildewed sacking that somebody had carelessly tossed onto the hearthrug.

‘Oh,’ she said, instantly forgetting her own grievances as a wave of concern washed through her. ‘Has somebody left an injured animal in here?’

Before the Earl could make any reply, something like a huge paw emerged and began energetically scratching at another portion of the tangled mass. A great shaggy head filled with immense teeth rose up, yawned, and then the whole settled back down into an amorphous muddy-coloured mass.

‘It’s a dog!’ she said, then blushed at the absurdity of stating the obvious. Of course it was a dog. Not a heap of sacking. Why on earth would an earl have piles of mildewed sacks about the place?

‘Yes,’ he said icily. ‘Do you wish me to have him removed? Does he offend you?’

‘What?’ She frowned. ‘No, of course he does not offend me. He just took me by surprise, that is all.’

His mouth twisted into the same expression of distaste he had turned on the woman who had presided at the foot of his dinner table the night before.

‘You think it beneath my dignity to own an animal of such uncertain pedigree? Is that it?’

It was a complaint he was always hearing from Lady Thrapston. Why could he not live up to his consequence? Why would he not go to town and ride around Hyde Park in a smart equipage? So that she could bask in his reflected glory, naturally. As though she did not occupy an elevated enough sphere in her own right!

And if he must have a dog, why could it not be an animal of prime pedigree, a gundog, the kind every other man would have.

As if he cared about appearances these days.

Helen was determined to hold her temper in check, in spite of his provoking manner. She managed to return a placating smile to his frown, and say, ‘No, not at all.’

The smile and the soft answer did not placate him. Their only effect was to make his scowl deeper.

‘I preferred you when you thought I was one of my servants,’ he muttered.

At least when she’d thought he was a footman he’d had the truth from her. Now she knew he was the Earl of Bridgemere she was putting on a false face. Smiling when what she really wanted to do was take him down a peg or two.

His comment wiped the smile from her face. She barely managed to prevent herself from informing him that she did not like him in either persona! As a servant she had thought him impertinent, as well as resenting the improper thoughts his proximity had sent frolicking through her mind. As an earl…Well, she had already decided he was a cold, hard, unpleasant sort of man before she had even met him.

Now she had met him she could add eccentric and unprincipled to the list of faults she was tallying up against him. Stringing her along like that, when one word would have put her straight!

However, it would not do to tell him what she really thought. Forcing herself to adopt what she hoped was a suitably humble tone, she said instead, ‘For which I do most sincerely apologise. It was just that you dress so…’ She waved her hand at his attire, which was so ordinary that she defied anyone who did not know to guess that this man held the rank of Earl.

But her speech made no impact on the depth of his scowl.

‘And then again, the way you just picked up my aunt and carried her upstairs, as though…’

‘You expected me to stand back and watch as she fell to the ground? Is that it?’

He could not tolerate people who were too high in the instep to lend a hand to those less fortunate than themselves. It sickened him when he saw highly bred females hold scented handkerchiefs to their noses as they turned their faces away from beggars. And what kind of man would let a fainting lady drop to the stone flags rather than risk creasing the fabric of his coat?

‘You were struggling with her dead weight,’ he pointed out. ‘And Peters was just standing there gaping. Somebody had to do something.’ And from the way she had railed at him on the subject of rank and need he had thought she felt the same. ‘As you so forcefully pointed out,’ he reminded her.

His eyes had gone so cold and hard it made her want to shiver. She quailed at the reminder of exactly what she had said to him on that occasion. He was clearly still very annoyed with her for being so impertinent.

‘Yes, I know I was terribly rude to you, but I thought…’

‘That I was merely a servant, and so could be spoken to as though I were of no account. Yes.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It was a most edifying experience.’

Now she knew he was an earl she would modify her views, no doubt, as well as her manners!

‘It was not like that!’ Helen objected. ‘If you do not wish to be taken for a servant you should tell people who you are! And not loiter around the backstairs the way you do!’

She could have kicked herself. She had sworn she would not antagonise him, and what was she doing? Answering him in a manner that was exceptionally impertinent.

And yet now his scowl had vanished. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing her with frank surprise.

‘Do you have no control over your temper, Miss Forrest?’

It was intriguing. She knew who he was. He was certain she had some hidden agenda where he was concerned. And yet she could only play at being obsequious so long before something inside her rebelled.

‘Very little,’ she admitted guiltily. ‘I always mean to say what is proper. But usually I just end up telling the truth instead.’

She clapped her hands over her mouth, appalled at having just given him such a clear demonstration of her lack of restraint.

But, far from looking offended, he began to smile. Until now she had only seen a hint of amusement putting a glint into those eyes which were normally so stony, so cold. It was a surprise to see how very different that smile made him look.

Oh, if he were just a footman, and he turned that smile on any of the maids, they would swoon at his feet!

‘Let me assure you, Miss Forrest, that when the host of a gathering such as this appears on the doorstep to welcome his guests he generally assumes that they know exactly who he is.’

‘Oh, well, y…yes,’ she conceded. ‘I suppose they would…’

‘And as for loitering, as you put it, on the backstairs, I do no such thing. I never use the main staircase because—’ He pulled himself up short, astounded by the fact that she had almost made him speak of a matter he never talked about with anyone. Not that most people needed to ask why he avoided setting foot on that staircase.

‘I was simply taking the quickest route down to this room when I chanced upon you and ran foul of your temper,’ he said irritably.

‘Oh!’ She sat up straight, feeling as though he had slapped her. All the melting feelings his smile had engendered vanished at once. ‘Well, I think I had a right to be angry! My aunt had been treated abominably! And then, to add insult to injury, you accused me of setting the servants’ hall in a bustle…’

He held up his hand. ‘Unjust of me under the circumstances, I suppose.’ Unjust to tease her, too. Had he not realised last night that this kind of behaviour was not that of a gentleman?

It was time to stop this—whatever it was that afflicted him whenever he came into Miss Forrest’s orbit—and remember why he had wanted to speak with her privately.

‘I had not all the facts at my disposal. I did not know that you were not a servant—’

‘You see?’ she could not refrain from pointing out triumphantly. ‘It is an easy enough mistake to make…’

His lips twitched. Was it so surprising he could not remember who he was when she was around, when she clearly could not either? She was still talking to him as though she had the right to take him to task. As though they were equals.

‘Touché. Let us cry quits over that issue. Agreed?’

‘Oh, absolutely!’ She beamed at him. Really, thought Helen, he was being far less difficult to deal with than she had imagined he would be. He could be fair. She only hoped he would be as fair in his eventual treatment of her aunt.

Lord, but that smile packed quite a punch. Miss Forrest was not merely pretty, as he had first thought. She was dazzling.

And women who could dazzle a man, make him forget who he was, the very principles by which he lived his life, were dangerous. As he knew to his cost.

He pulled a sheet of paper across the desk and frowned down at it.

‘As for the question of your aunt’s accommodations,’ he said coldly, ‘it appears quite a string of errors have been made. About you both. I wondered at the time I took her up there exactly why my cousin’s aunt had been put in a room that should more correctly have been allotted to a visiting upper servant. And upon making enquiries I discovered it had not.’

‘Not?’ Helen felt puzzled. One moment he had been smiling and approachable. The next it was as though he had pulled up the drawbridge and retreated into his fortress. Shutting her out.

‘Ah, no. The room to which I took her is yours, Miss Forrest. And before you remind me yet again that you are not a servant, let me explain that until your arrival it was believed you were accompanying my aunt in the role of paid companion. I have checked the correspondence by means of which she informed Mrs Dent she was bringing along a young lady. She referred to you as her companion and, having read it myself, I am not the least surprised it created such confusion. We had no idea you are, in fact, a young relative of hers.’

Helen cast her mind back to the day her aunt had written that letter. Her nerves had been in shreds. When she had lost all her money certain people had begun to cut her in the street. And then their landlord, who had sometimes come in to take tea with them, had stood on the doorstep, coldly demanding cash and threatening her with eviction. She had known she could not apply to either of her brothers for aid. And then the annual invitation to Alvanley Hall had arrived, reminding her that there was still the head of the family, who might—just might—be able to solve her difficulties. Aunt Bella’s hand had been shaking as she had penned her acceptance letter. It was hardly surprising that she had not made Helen’s station clear.

When she nodded, he went on, ‘I shall have her moved to the room she should have been occupying today. You will be relieved to hear,’ he said dryly, ‘that it is not up so many flights of stairs.’

She felt her cheeks colouring, but lifted her chin and said, ‘Thank you.’

He regarded her wryly. ‘I can see that hurt. And it may hurt you even more when you are obliged to retract your accusation that my staff ignored the needs of an ailing untitled lady to see to a woman of rank. The simple fact of the matter is that the bell-pull in that room does not work.’

Helen wanted to curl up somewhere and hide. She had briefly suspected something of the sort. But then she had lost her temper and gone storming down to the kitchens, flinging accusations in all directions. She could not have made more of a fool of herself if…if…No, that was it. She could not have made more of a fool of herself!

‘I did wonder about that,’ she admitted. ‘But then I got so cross that I assumed the worst. I am sorry.’

The Earl cleared his throat, and for a moment he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. ‘The only reason nobody came to see to her was that nobody knew she was there. For which oversight I hold myself entirely to blame. I assumed that my staff would take care of her. But immediately after your arrival my older sister Lady Thrapston moved in, and promptly commandeered the services of my housekeeper.’ His voice dripped with disdain. ‘She seems to think she has the right to order my servants about simply because she once used to live here herself. In retrospect I admit I should have taken a firmer stance over the matter, and personally ensured that at least one maid was not engaged in running round after Lady Thrapston. For which I apologise.’