A Proper Mistress (10 page)

"I hope not," Molly muttered. The shorter the better.

"This is where you earn your money," he said, and offered his arm. "Shall we beard the lion in his den?"

She put her hand on his arm. "The only lions I've ever seen are at the Tower, and they're toothless, old mangy things."

He grinned again. "This one isn't toothless or mangy, but let's hope he gets his roaring done fast."

Leading the way, he ran up the steps. Molly kept pace with him. He didn't bother to knock, but reached to open the door only to have it swing open before him.

"Hallo, Simpson," he said, his tone brazen now.

The older servant fell back a step. "Master Theo? We hadn't expected you!" His stare traveled to Molly. He held a lamp in one hand and had opened the door with the other. The light cascaded across Molly, and Theo glanced at her.

The ostrich feathers on her bonnet might be wilting, but she had pasted a smile in place and those green eyes of hers sparkled with a militant challenge. Admiration for her rose in him. By all, he had seen some real luck in finding her.

As Simpson—his father's butler—stepped back, startled enough that he had allowed the shock to register with a slack jaw and glassy eyes, Molly swept into the house.

She paused in the hallway and started looking about as if pricing every item, from the tapestries on the walls, to the tables, to the chairs that had been around since the Crusades.

Theo fought down a grin at that, and turned to Simpson. "This is Molly Sweet. She's to have the Queen's Bedchamber."

At that Molly swung around, her eyes wide. But she seemed to recover for she offered up a smile and said, "Lordy, ducks. You said you'd treat me right proper like a queen."

London Cockney now dripped from her voice, and Theo had to resist another smile. Blazes, but she would give his father an apoplexy! Grim satisfaction settled into him. About time his father learned that he had two grown sons—not puppets he could make dance to any whim!

Simpson had recovered his customary wooden face. The man never aged, Theo thought. He had been in the squire's service for as long as Theo could recall and had always had that lantern jaw, silver-streaked thinning black hair and narrow shoulders that were stooped with age. Nothing got under Simpson's skin—not years, and not even a strumpet in a green and yellow stripped dress who was expecting to sleep in the same bedchamber that had once housed Queen Elizabeth.

Well, he'd soon see about that. He glanced around him. "And you can tell my father, Simpson, that we have a guest."

"Beg pardon, but I cannot, sir."

Theo stared at the man. "Cannot? Why in blazes not?"

Simpson blinked and said, his tone perfectly bland, "The squire is not at home."

Eyes narrowed, Theo stared at Simpson, trying to see behind the polite phrase. The words were used often enough as an excuse to avoid unwelcome visitors. The squire, however, scorned such diplomatic evasions—if he did not want to see someone he told them so, blunt as a hammer wrapped in plain cloth.

"Where in blazes is he if not here?" Theo asked, biting off the words as he tried to curb his annoyance.

Simpson closed the front door. "I cannot say, sir. He left the day before yesterday. Something about a horse, I believe."

"It would be," Theo muttered. The squire had always paid more heed to his hunters and race horses than he had to anything else in his life. Typical of the man not to be here now he was wanted. "Well, how am I to—"

He checked his own words for he had been about to say more than was wise—Simpson was his father's servant after all. Instead, he decided he might as well start the game, so he added, "How am I to present my bride to him?"

Shock glittered in Simpson's light brown eyes and slackened his jaw. His glance slipped to Molly, and he had to drag his stare from her, stiffening again into starched propriety.

Least I got a reaction from him about something,
Theo thought, though he found less satisfaction in achieving that long sought goal than he had ever expected. It had only taken his entire twenty-five years to get past the man's inhuman restraint. But it would have been more fun to do so when it wasn't his future and Terrance's that were being staked on the outcome of how this particular hand was played.

Theo glanced at Molly, who gazed back at him, an expectant look in her green eyes as if to ask,
"Now what?"
Good question that. Lord, the situation would be laughable if it was not so damn irritating.

Glancing at Simpson again, he asked, "When do you expect his return?"

Uncertainty came into Simpson's eyes and he started to offer more vague politeness. Theo cut him off with a wave. "You don't know that either, do you? Of course not. Why would he tell anyone anything about his affairs! Well, at least you know the way to the Queen's room—and I hope you know enough to arrange dinner for us."

Hesitating, Simpson shot another glance at Molly. He seemed to resign himself to the situation for he offered a bow and started up the stairs, saying to Molly, his tone frigid, "This way, Miss Sweet."

Molly sent Theo a questioning stare, as if she was not the least comfortable about any of this, but at his nod of encouragement, she gave a small shrug, turned and started up the stairs after Simpson. Frowning, Theo watched her.

Blazes, but this put a branch in the spokes of everything. How did he now convince Molly to stay until his father should return? And what in blazes did he do if the squire stayed away for more than a fortnight?

#

Resisting the urge to ask questions about the house—which seemed heavy with history and stories—Molly followed the butler up the thickly carpeted stairs that creaked with age under her steps. The house seemed to be all stairs and corridors, wood wainscoting and plastered walls painted in dark greens and reds and hung with portraits of horses or dogs or people in lace or satin or both.

It was enough to intimidate anyone. Or at least anyone who hadn't also seen the white marble palaces of India's powerful rajas, with peacocks strutting the halls, and gold-clad slaves, and enough opulence to truly awe.

So she merely looked about herself.

Silent disapproval emanated from the butler's stiff form as he opened a heavy oak door into a bedroom and went about the act of using a spill of wood, lit by his lamp, to light the candles.

Molly glanced around the room as it moved from shadow to light, and she found herself a touch disappointed.

Paneled in dark wood, the chamber did not quite fit her idea of housing for a queen. In India, a queen would have had a cavern of a room—or at least that's how her childhood memories painted the image of the great palace she had once visited in Madras.

In this room, heavy red drapery hung from two sets of windows. Three dark paintings of indistinct hunting scenes and horses hung on the wall, and the furnishings—a maple wardrobe and dressing table, and two high-backed wooden chairs—looked as rigid as the butler and just as uncomfortable. The only lightness came from an intricately plastered white ceiling; the enormous bed, with its red brocade tester and hangings, was the only thing that resembled luxury.

"You don't mean to say you a queen slept in this tiny hole of a room, do you?" she asked, remembering to keep her Sallie voice in place and simply allowing the thoughts in her head to tumble out uncensored.

Simpson stared at her, his face puckering as if he had bitten into an unripe gooseberry. "This is the Tudor wing of the house. Rooms were built small and paneled for warmth."

"Didn't they think a nice cheerful fire could do just as well? But I s'pose the bed's a bit of all right."

The corner of his mouth twitched and not with a smile. "I shall see your things are brought up and that a maid is sent to attend you."

With another curt bow, one that managed to convey polite disdain, he left. When the door shut, Molly let out a breath. "Coo, but he's got to be worse than the squire," she muttered. And she giggled. She had sounded more like Sallie than even Sallie ever did.

Gracious, but would she have a story to tell when she returned. That set her frowning. Just when she would return now seemed to be in question. And while a few weeks of holiday might be fun in other circumstances, she wondered if so much time gone might it into Sallie's head to hire another cook. Sallie's good nature only stretched so far, after all.

Well, at dinner she would make clear to Theo that she could allow him no more than a few days leeway. That seemed fair enough. In the meantime, she knew how to take a blessing as it came. And she was happy enough not to have to meet the squire tonight what with her being travel weary, hungry, and rumpled.

Taking off her jacket and her shoes, she let her thoughts wander ahead to the pleasure of washing the dust from her face, of slipping into a fresh gown, and sitting down to a hot meal. That seemed close enough to paradise just now.

Thankfully, her trunk came up on the back of a footman soon enough. He seemed inclined to linger, a rather cheeky grin in place, so she sent him away. A maid brought her water to wash—and to gawk. No sooner had that one been dismissed than another knocked on the door and came in to ask Molly if she needed anything. One more arrived after that—gracious, but they had servants to spare—to lead her to the drawing room, saying that Mr. Winslow waited on her company for dinner.

And now I know exactly how those poor old lions in the Tower menagerie feel,
Molly thought, walking down the hall behind the maid, who keep sliding curious glances back at her.
They all want to see what Theo's brought home for a bride—and I had best give them a show for that's what I'm here for.

So she put on a broad smile and asked if the paintings were real, and wondered how much had been paid for the vases, chairs, and side tables they passed, and speculated on how much each might fetch at auction. That earned her appalled, wide-eyed stares from the maid, and Molly almost wanted to reassure the girl that she actually really did not mean any of it.

Only she had a role to play. And, in truth, she found a giddy, secret delight in saying anything that came into her head. Perhaps Theo had been right and there was a bit of actress in her. Or perhaps it was just the sense of freedom it brought.

Since she had been left alone on the London docks at twelve, survival had meant learning how best to please others. She had become quite good at that, and had found a measure of satisfaction in such a skill. However, with it came the pressure that failure meant beatings and starving and cold rooms without a light or a blanket. She had learned that well. Now, she was turned loose. She was supposed not to please—so she could say what she wanted, and, oh, gracious, was that not a treat.

Of course, it also helped to know she would be here only a day or two, and so need not deal with the consequences of stirring up everyone's animosity. Which was another good reason to make certain her stay would be a short one.

In the drawing room, she found Theo still in his traveling clothes—buff breeches, black boots, white shirt with a spotted handkerchief knotted about his throat instead of a proper cravat, and a buff waistcoat. He had at least changed his coat—a blue one for a brown one.

He gave her an approving stare. She had dressed in a vivid red silk evening gown taken from Jane's wardrobe. The hem had had to be pinned up, which one of the maids had done without a question as to why Molly should own a dress that did not fit her. Cut low, the dress showed the swell of her breasts, pushing them up in a rather shocking fashion, and the color rather clashed with her hair. But she rather thought she looked just as she ought: like one of Sallie's girls.

However, she was not about to be alone in this May game of his, so she raked a critical stare over Theo as soon as they were alone. "I rate a new coat, but not more? That's not what I call gentlemanly, nor very like to seem as if you wish to impress me."

He frowned at her as if she had just kicked him. "You never complained before."

"That was on the road. And we may not have your father here to watch, but we have every other pair of eyes in this house." She smiled at him. "Or don't you want them thinking you're really courting me?"

"Oh, for..." He lifted one hand with exasperation. "That means putting dinner back, you know."

She sat down on a chair near the fire. "As if I could eat much with a black-spotted, mustard yellow kerchief opposite me."

He glowered at her, and she answered with lifted brows and a calm face. Turning, he stalked from the room.

A quarter hour later he returned, now in a black coat, knee breeches, white stockings and black patent shoes, a white cravat neatly tied, and a cream satin waistcoat embroidered with vivid peacock colors. He looked devastatingly handsome, and she could almost wish she had not asked him to change. Her mouth had dried and her pulse lifted as he came to her, blue eyes sparkling as if he planned to extract a suitable revenge for being made to dress.