Kitabı oku: «The Bride's Necklace», sayfa 2

Two

It was early the following morning that Mrs. Mills began her instruction and Tory learned the scope of her duties. Fortunately, she had managed a fairly large household at Harwood Hall, though the penny-pinching baron kept the staff to a minimum, resulting in long, exhausting days for all of them.

Though Claire had never worked at Harwood, she accepted her duties without the least complaint, collecting peas and beans from the kitchen garden, haring off to the marketplace for a pot of butter Cook needed for the evening meal, enjoying the camaraderie of working with the other servants.

Since their mother, Charlotte Temple Whiting, Lady Harwood, had died three years ago, they’d had very little social life. Tory had been away at Mrs. Thornhill’s Private Academy when her mother had fallen ill. After her mother’s death, her stepfather had insisted that Tory forgo the balance of her term at school to stay home and manage the household in her mother’s stead.

Claire, he said, could receive private instruction. Where the girls were concerned, the baron was miserly in the extreme, but Tory now knew he also hoped to find his way into her sister’s bed.

A shiver ran down her spine. Claire is safe now, she told herself. But in truth, the theft of the necklace and the possible death of the baron hung over them like a shroud that darkened each of their days. Surely, if the man had died, she would have read about it in the papers—or been apprehended for the deed by now.

Then again, perhaps the baron had recovered and simply said nothing of the crime, hoping to avoid a scandal. He was obsessed with the title he had gained on the death of her father. He was Baron Harwood now. He would not wish to sully the name.

Her mind strayed to the necklace. From the moment Miles Whiting had first seen it, he had been fascinated with the beautiful string of pearls interspersed with glittering diamonds. Tory thought that perhaps he had purchased it for his mistress then couldn’t bear to part with it. Whatever the truth, the necklace always seemed to have an odd sort of hold over him.

Surely the whispered tales of violence and passion, vast fortunes gained and lost that revolved around the necklace were nothing more than fantasy.

Then again…Tory glanced around, thinking of her present situation, her face damp from the coal fires burning beneath the pots boiling on the stove, her hair springing out of its coil and sticking to the back of her neck. She thought of Claire and worried at the earl’s intentions—and wondered, just for an instant, if perhaps the curse was real.

Tory worked with Mrs. Mills, going over each of the tasks she would be responsible for as housekeeper. Keeping the accounts, preparing menus and receiving deliveries, inventorying the larder, looking after the linens and placing orders for household supplies were among an endless list.

It wasn’t until several hours later, as she headed upstairs to begin an inventory of the west-wing linen closet, that she encountered the earl, lounging in the doorway of one of the bedchambers. Her sister was changing the linens inside the room, she realized, and her whole body stiffened.

“Is there something you need, my lord?” Tory asked, certain she knew what he was about.

“What? Oh, no, nothing, thank you. I was just…” He flicked a glance at Claire, who was staring out the window holding an armload of dirty sheets. “What is your sister doing?”

Tory followed his gaze, saw Claire standing there with a mesmerized look on her face. Reaching out, she caught a moth on the tip of her finger. She didn’t move an inch as she watched the tiny wings float up and down.

Worry tightened Tory’s chest. They needed this job. They were out of money, out of options. They simply had nowhere else to go.

“You needn’t fear, my lord. Claire is a very hard worker. She’ll see her tasks completed. It might take her a little longer than someone else, but she’s very conscientious. And she’ll do a very good job.”

The earl looked down at Tory. His eyes were a sort of golden brown, a bit unusual and somehow disturbing.

“I’m sure she will.” His gaze flicked back to Claire, who still stood mesmerized by the slow, graceful movement of the tiny moth.

Tory started forward, walking purposely into the room. “Claire, darling. Why don’t you take those sheets down to Mrs. Wiggs? She could probably use some help with the laundry.”

Claire’s face softened into a beatific smile. “All right.” Strolling out of the room, she breezed right past the earl, whose gaze followed her feminine movements down the hall.

“As I said, you don’t have to worry about Claire.”

His attention returned to Tory and a corner of his mouth edged up. “No, I have a feeling you do enough worrying about her all by yourself.”

Tory made no reply, just continued past him into the hall. Her heart was racing, her stomach oddly trembling. Fear of losing their desperately needed employment, she told herself. But as her gaze slid one last time toward the tall, dark-haired earl, she worried that it might be something else.

The ormolu clock on the mantel struck midnight. Seated behind the desk in his study, Cord barely heard it. Instead, he stared into the circle of light from the silver whale-oil lamp illuminating the ledger he had been poring over since just after supper. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, thinking how far into the red his family fortune had sunk before he had taken over the job of rebuilding.

Until the day his father died, he’d had no idea the problems the old man had been facing. Cord had been too busy carousing with his friends, drinking and debauching, gaming, skirt-chasing and generally doing whatever pleased him at the moment. He’d had no time for family responsibilities, duties that should have been his as the eldest son.

Then his father had suffered an apoplexy, leaving him unable to speak and his left side paralyzed, distorting his once-handsome face. Two months later, the earl of Brant was dead and the crushing weight of his financially failing earldom settled heavily on his son’s more-than-adequate shoulders.

In the two years since, Cord still wondered if the earl might not be alive today if his son had been there to help ease his burden. Perhaps together they could have solved at least a portion of the estate’s financial problems. Perhaps if the strain hadn’t been so great…

Ah, but it was too late for that now and so the guilt remained, driving Cord to do what he felt he should have done in the first place.

He sighed into the silence of the room, hearing the clock tick now, watching his shadow move against the wall as he leaned over his desk. At least there was some satisfaction in the accomplishments he had made. Several wise investments over the past two years had returned the Brant coffers to a satisfactory level. He had earned enough to pay for all the needed repairs on the three estates that belonged to the earldom and make several new investments that looked very promising indeed.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He owed his father for failing him in his time of need. Cord meant to repay him not by simply rebuilding the Brant family fortune but taking it to greater heights than it had ever been before. Not only had he discovered he was remarkably good at making money, he had formulated a financial plan, one that included marriage to an heiress, a lady of quality who could contribute to the family wealth.

He didn’t imagine that goal would be particularly difficult to accomplish. Cord knew women. He felt comfortable with them, liked them—young or old, fat or thin, rich or poor. And they liked him. He already had his eye on a couple of potential mates. When the time came, it wouldn’t be hard to decide which attractive, wealthy young woman he should marry.

Thinking of women, an image of the lovely little blonde asleep upstairs rose into his head. He had never seduced one of the servants before, or for that matter, such an obvious innocent, but remembering the beautiful Claire, he was willing to make an exception. And he would take very good care of her. He would see she had a comfortable town house and be generous enough in his allowance that she could take care of her older sister.

The arrangement would benefit all of them.

It was Monday, Tory’s first official day as the earl of Brant’s housekeeper. It was just past noon and so far things hadn’t gone well. Even though the earl had introduced her to the staff as Mrs. Temple, Tory had known it would be difficult for a young woman her age to gain their loyalty and respect.

Hiring a woman of her mere nineteen years just simply was not done. The servants were resentful of taking orders from someone they saw as completely inexperienced, and though that was scarcely the case, beyond proving herself as time went on, there was nothing she could do to change their opinion.

To make matters worse, the servants all expected the job would be given to Mrs. Rathbone, a senior member of the below-stairs serving staff. And Mrs. Rathbone was obviously furious to have been overlooked.

“Tory?” Claire came rushing down the sweeping spiral staircase. Even the mobcap she wore over her silver-blond curls, the crisp black taffeta skirt and plain white blouse, couldn’t dim the glow of her beautiful face. “I finished sweeping the guest rooms in the east wing. What shall I do next?”

Tory gazed round the lavishly furnished mansion, noting the freshly cut flowers on the table in the entry, the gleam of the inlaid parquet floors. At first glance, the interior of the house looked clean, the Hepplewhite tables glistening, the hearths cleaned of coal dust, but on closer inspection, she had discovered a number of things amiss.

The silver badly needed polishing, none of the guest rooms had been freshened in weeks, and the chimneys needed sweeping. The rugs were due for a very thorough beating and the draperies desperately needed to be aired.

She would see it done, she told herself. Somehow she would win the servants’ cooperation.

“I haven’t done the rooms in the west wing,” Claire said from her place on the stairs. “Shall I go up and sweep in there?”

Tory didn’t really want her to. Lord Brant’s room was in that part of the house and she had vowed to keep her sister as far away from the earl as she possibly could.

“Why don’t you go down to the butler’s pantry and help Miss Honeycutt finish polishing that lovely Sheffield silver?”

“All right, but—”

“My room could certainly use a bit of sweeping,” the earl drawled from where he stood on the staircase just above Claire, his unusual golden eyes running over her sister’s suddenly flushed features.

Claire dropped into a curtsey, momentarily lost her balance and almost tumbled down the stairs. Fortunately, the earl reached out and caught her arm, helping her regain her footing.

“Take it easy, love. You needn’t kill yourself trying to get there.”

More color stained Claire’s already rosy cheeks. “Forgive me, my lord. Sometimes I—I’m a little clumsy. I shall see to it right away.” Claire raced back up the stairs, passing the earl, causing him to turn and watch her climb upward. His lion’s gaze followed her until she disappeared, then he turned and fixed his attention on Tory.

“I trust you’re settling into your new position.”

“Yes, my lord. Everything is going along quite well.” That was a lie, of course. The servants barely acknowledged her existence and she wasn’t sure how much work she could actually get them to do.

“Good. Let me know if there is anything you need.” He turned and started climbing upward, heightening Tory’s worry about his intentions toward Claire.

“My lord?”

He paused near the top of the landing. “Yes?”

“There are…I have a couple of items I should like to discuss.”

“Perhaps a little later.” He took the last several steps, started striding toward his room.

“They are rather important,” Tory called after him, beginning to follow him up. “Perhaps you might break away for just a few moments.”

Brant stopped and turned. He studied her for several long moments and something told her he knew exactly what she was about.

A faint smile curved his lips. “That important, are they? I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

Cord shook his head, his amused smile still in place as he reached the doorway of his suite. She was quite remarkable, this new housekeeper of his. Cheeky little thing and far too perceptive for his liking. The door stood open. His gaze slid across the room to the ethereal creature in the mobcap pushing the broom with light, rapid strokes, piling up the tiny bit of dust that was all she could find on the carefully polished oak floor.

She was lovely in the extreme. And unlike her slightly impertinent sister, completely in awe and even a little afraid of him. He wondered what he could do to put her at ease.

He started into the room, then stopped as he realized she hadn’t noticed his presence, which allowed him the pleasure of watching her. The broom continued its movements, then stilled as Claire stopped to study the little silver music box on his writing desk in the corner. Lifting the lid, she stood transfixed as the notes of a Beethoven lullaby spilled out.

She began to sway, the broom moving side to side as if it were her dancing partner, her lilting voice softly humming along with the tune in the box. Cord watched her lithe, graceful movements, but instead of being captivated as he had been that first day, he found himself frowning.

As lovely as she was, watching her was like peering into a fairy’s private kingdom, like watching a child at play. Cord didn’t like the notion.

She saw him just then, jumped and slammed the lid closed on the box. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. It—it was just so lovely. I opened it and the music poured out and, well…1I hope you aren’t angry.”

“No,” he said with a faint shake of his head, “I’m not angry.”

“My lord?” At the sharp tone of Victoria Temple’s voice, his eyebrows went up and he swung his attention in her direction. He found himself inwardly smiling at the fierce look on her face.

“What is it now, Mrs. Temple? I thought I told you I’d be down in fifteen minutes.”

She smoothed her features into a bland expression. “Quite so, my lord, but I was bringing up this load of freshly washed laundry and I thought I would save you the trouble of walking all the way back downstairs.”

She held up the laundry as proof of why she had come and he caught a whiff of starch and soap and a hint of something feminine. “Yes, well, that was extremely thoughtful of you.”

And fairly creative. She was a protective little thing, and no doubt. But then he had known that from the start.

With a last glance at Claire, whose face, even drained of color, still held an ethereal beauty unlike anything he’d ever seen, Cord closed the door, leaving the girl to her work. He followed Victoria Temple down the hall, then paused beneath a gilt sconce on the wall.

“All right, Mrs. Temple, these very important questions you have…what are they?” He imagined she’d had time to think of something in the moments she had feared for her sister’s safety. He found himself intrigued to discover what she might have come up with.

“To begin, there is the issue of the silver. I assume you wish to keep it polished at all times.”

He nodded very seriously. “By all means. What would happen if a guest arrived and the tea service were not up to snuff?”

“Exactly, my lord.” She glanced over his shoulder toward the room in which her sister still worked, Claire’s humming faintly audible through the door. “And there are the guest rooms to consider.”

“The guest rooms?”

“They are desperately in need of airing…if that meets with your approval, of course.”

He bit back an urge to laugh and instead kept the serious expression on his face. “Airing…Of course. I should have thought of that myself.”

“Then I have your permission?”

“Absolutely.” As if Victoria Temple needed his permission for anything she might wish to do. “Why, should a guest catch the scent of less-than-clean air in any of the bedchambers, the humiliation would be unbearable.”

“And the chimneys. It’s important that—”

“Do with the chimneys whatever you wish, Mrs. Temple. Keeping the house clean is extremely important. That is the reason I hired someone as obviously capable as you. Now, if you will excuse me…”

She opened her mouth, probably thinking he meant to return to where Claire continued to work, then snapped it closed when she saw he was heading, instead, downstairs. Chuckling to himself, he made his way toward his study. Behind him he could hear her sigh of relief.

Cord just smiled. He wasn’t sure what to make of either of the two young women, but one thing was certain. His life hadn’t been dull since the moment they arrived.

Tory rose early the following morning. As befitted her status as housekeeper, her below-stairs room just off the middle hallway was large and surprisingly pleasant, with a well-furnished sitting room and a bed with a comfortable mattress and pillow. A porcelain basin and pitcher painted with lavender flowers sat on the bureau against the wall, and pretty white muslin curtains hung at the half windows.

Tory poured water into the basin, completed her morning ablutions, then walked over to the black skirt and white blouse that were the uniform she wore each day. She frowned as she picked up the clothes, realizing these weren’t the ones she had hung beside the door last night.

Instead, these were freshly laundered, smelling strongly of starch and soap. They crackled as she took them off the hook, so stiff they looked as if they were fashioned of pieces of wood instead of the soft cotton fabric they had been sewn from.

Sweet Mother Mary! Of all the childish…Tory cut herself off, ending her silent tirade before it had actually begun. She didn’t know which of the staff had done this, though Mrs. Rathbone, the most senior of the staff, seemed the most likely. Her dislike of Tory was a clear case of jealousy, but it didn’t really matter. All of them resented her. They probably spent half the morning devising ways to make her quit. They didn’t know how badly she needed this job, how desperate she and Claire were for money.

They didn’t understand it was possible they might even be fugitives from the law.

At least they seemed to have accepted Claire. But then, Claire was so sweet and generous nearly everyone did. It was Tory they considered the problem, the one they needed to get rid of. Still, no matter what the others believed, no matter what they did to her, she wasn’t going to quit.

Gritting her teeth, Tory pulled the blouse on over her shift and shoved her arms into the sleeves, stepped into the skirt and fastened the tabs, the garments crackling with every move. The blouse scratched under her arms and the collar chafed the back of her neck.

She knew how she sounded, snapping and popping with every step. As she passed a gilded mirror in the hallway, she discovered how awful she looked. The sleeves of the blouse stuck out like wings and the skirt poked out front and back like a stiff black sail.

“What in God’s name…?”

Tory froze at the sound of the earl’s deep voice, turned to see him striding toward her, dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. Dear sweet God—of all the rotten luck! Didn’t the man have anything better to do than lurk around the hallways?

Cord stopped in front of her, leaned back and crossed his arms over the very impressive width of his chest.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Temple, when you were asking me all those housekeeping questions the other day, you should have asked my advice on how to manage the laundry. I might have suggested you consider using a bit less starch.”

Tory felt the color rushing into her cheeks. She looked like a complete fool in the ridiculous garb, which was perhaps the reason the earl looked even more handsome that he had the day before.

“I am not in charge of the laundry, my lord. However, I assure you that in future, I shall see that more care is taken in the training of your staff in that regard.”

A corner of his mouth curved up. “I would think that a very wise course.”

He made no move to leave, just stood there grinning, so she simply stared back at him and lifted her chin. “If you will excuse me, my lord.”

“Of course. I imagine you have airing and polishing to do—and laundry instruction of course.”

Her face colored again. Turning, she left him, trying to ignore his soft chuckling laughter and the crackle and popping of her skirts.

Still smiling, thinking again of Victoria Temple in her god-awful, overstarched clothes, Cord continued down the hall to his study. He had a meeting this morning with Colonel Howard Pendleton of the British War Office. The colonel had been a good friend of his father’s. He had also worked closely with Cord’s cousin, Ethan.

Aside from the hours spent rebuilding his family fortune, the balance of Cord’s time was spent trying to locate his cousin and best friend, Ethan Sharpe. Ethan was the second son of Malcolm Sharpe, marquess of Belford, his mother being Cord’s aunt. When Priscilla and Malcolm Sharpe were killed in a carriage accident on their way in from the country, Lord and Lady Brant had taken in the marquess’s children, Charles, Ethan and Sarah, to raise as their own.

Since Cord had no siblings, he and the children had become extremely close. There had been the occasional bloody nose, and once Cord had accidentally broken Ethan’s arm in a wrestling match that ended up with the two of them landing in the creek. Cord would have suffered a well-deserved birching had Ethan not sworn he had fallen in accidentally and that Cord had been trying to save him from drowning.

The incident had cemented Cord and Ethan’s friendship, though Ethan was two years younger. Perhaps it was partly to prove himself that he had joined the navy as soon as he graduated Oxford. That had been nine years ago. Since then, he had left the navy but not His Majesty’s Service. Ethan Sharpe captained the schooner Sea Witch, serving Britain now as a privateer.

Or at least he had been until he and his ship disappeared.

A soft knock sounded on the study door. His short, stout butler, Timmons, stuck his head through the opening. “Colonel Pendleton is here, my lord.”

“Show him in.”

A few moments later a silver-haired man in the scarlet tunic of a military officer walked into the study, gold buttons glittering on the front of his coat. Cord rounded his desk and walked over to greet him.

“It’s good to see you, Colonel.”

“You as well, my lord.”

“Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of brandy or a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t much time.”

Cord passed as well, his mind on Ethan, his worry building each day. For nearly a year, he had been searching, refusing to consider the possibility that the missing ship and its crew might simply have perished in a storm. Ethan was too good a captain, Cord believed. Something else had to have happened.

Both men seated themselves in comfortable leather chairs in front of the hearth and Cord got directly to the business at hand.

“What news, Howard?”

The colonel actually smiled. “A bit of good news, my lord. Three days ago, one of our warships, the Victor, arrived in Portsmouth. She was carrying a civilian passenger named Edward Legg. Legg claims to be a member of Captain Sharpe’s crew.”

Cord’s chest tightened. He leaned forward in his chair. “What did he say about Ethan and his ship?”

“That is the good news. Mr. Legg claims that on their last mission, two French warships were lying in wait off the Le Havre coast. Someone had informed them as to Captain Sharpe’s arrival—or at least that is what Legg believes. A battle ensued and the Sea Witch was damaged beyond repair, but most of the crew was captured, not killed, including Captain Sharpe.”

“How did Legg wind up on the Victor?”

“Apparently, once they reached the mainland, Legg and another sailor managed to escape. The other man died of injuries he received during the fighting, but Legg made it to Spain, where he came upon the Victor returning to England.”

“Did he say where Ethan was taken?”

“I’m afraid he didn’t know.”

“Was Ethan injured in the fighting?”

“Legg said the captain suffered a saber wound and other miscellaneous injuries in the battle, but he didn’t believe they were serious enough to kill a man like Captain Sharpe.”

Cord prayed Legg was right. “I’ll need to speak to him. The sooner, the better.”

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

They talked a few moments more, then Cord rose from his chair, ending the conversation.

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Pendleton said, moving toward the door.

Cord just nodded. Ethan was alive; he was sure of it. The boy who had never shed a tear during the setting of his broken arm had grown into an even tougher man.

And wherever he was, Cord meant to find him.