In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) (22 page)

“I’m going to put her to bed, Captain Cooper. When she gets into those stories of hers, it’s clear to me she’s got a fever of the brain. Such an imagination. I’m sure she’ll tell wonderful stories to her babies, but right now she’s very tired.”

“I’m not tired,” Louisa said, sulky. And she was not having any babies to tell stories to. Not that she’d ever given children much thought before—she was never getting married now, was she?—but suddenly they didn’t seem quite so sticky and unpleasant. A dark-haired boy, a golden-haired girl—oh, what was the matter with her? Charles was right. She
was
hysterical.

“At least you should be able to sleep well tonight,” Charles said in a soothing tone that got on her last nerve. “No intruders, right, Kathleen? Robertson will keep to his quarters like a good boy and we’ll all feel jolly in the morning.” He left her sitting there and set to going through the suite, removing obstacles from doorways. She could hear furniture sliding and clunking away in the next room.

Jolly. Ha. Louisa glared at her maid. “I don’t know if I should forgive you.” She was rather hoping to be trapped up here with Charles for the foreseeable future.

“I am sorry, truly I am. We meant only to keep you from falling prey to a fortune hunter. You’re usually on guard against such men, but the captain seems to interest you. Am I correct?”

Louisa felt her face grow hot. “He’s a very interesting man.”

“Good in bed, is he?”

“Kathleen!” She really did not have much to compare him to, but she was pretty certain no sane woman would have any complaint over Charles Cooper’s caresses.

“Well, you be careful. You wouldn’t want to get in the family way. I don’t suppose you have one of those clever Mensinga diaphragms we learned about in Germany—you would have told me.”

Louisa restrained herself from sticking her fingers in her ears. “You’re right. I’m exhausted. Put me to bed.”

She tried not to mind that Charles never returned to her or their nightcap as she sat at her dressing table in a prim nightgown, Kathleen brushing out and braiding up her hair. Once her maid finally left—after boring her stiff with praise of Robbie Robertson’s prowess—Louisa made her way through the bathing chamber and tentatively turned the captain’s doorknob. It was unyielding. Locked against her.

Just as it should be.

Chapter

28

Saturday, December 5, 1903

A
t least he wasn’t going to be trapped in temptation too near a bed with Louisa in the suite all day. No one was out to kill him, Charles thought as he nicked his cheek with his razor. He was doing a good enough job at that all on his own. He blotted the blood up on a pristine white towel, hoping he wouldn’t incur the permanent wrath of Rosemont’s laundress.

He’d just about finished bleeding and dressing when Louisa rapped on his sensibly locked door.

“Charles, breakfast has been brought up to the sitting room.” She sounded brisk. Imperious. The old Louisa Stratton was back.

“Thank you. I’ll join you in a moment.” He’d dressed to ride, thinking it would do them both a world of good to get away from the estate and visit the village. He knew nothing about flowers but could stand about as she poked things into vases in the church vestry.

Satisfied that his tie was straight, he exited through the hall door and strolled down the corridor to the sitting room, just in case Louisa was still in dishabille in her room. The scent of sausages would have drawn him even if he didn’t want to see her this morning.

He was rewarded by a vision of both silver domed dishes and his “wife.” There were two other people in the room as well. A footman, not William today, was arranging the food on the table in front of the window under the watchful eye of a slender, distinguished-looking older woman. The missing housekeeper, Charles presumed. He plastered a sober expression on his face and prepared to offer his condolences once they had been introduced.

Louisa sat before the crackling fire, wearing a neat burgundy riding habit. So she remembered his proposition. It was another glorious early December day, milder even than yesterday, he’d thought as he stuck his head out of the window earlier. It seemed warmer outside than it was in the mausoleum-like house.

“Good morning again, darling,” Charles said, slipping into his Maximillian mode.

“Max!” she said with false brightness. “May I make you acquainted with Rosemont’s sterling housekeeper, Mrs. Lang? Mrs. Lang, my husband, Maximillian Norwich.”

Charles extended a hand. “I am most happy to meet you, Mrs. Lang, and compliment you on the superb state of my wife’s home. And you have my sympathies on the loss of your mother.”

Mrs. Lang’s mother must have been ancient indeed. The housekeeper was wreathed in wrinkles herself. She nodded regally back at him but did not take his hand. No doubt Maximillian Norwich should not be in the habit of shaking hands with the servants, so Charles stuffed his paw into a pocket.

“Thank you, sir. Congratulations on your nuptials.”

The woman did not smile, so Charles was unable to see if the crone had all her own teeth left. He remembered Louisa saying the housekeeper was in Grace’s camp, so there probably was very little value in trying to charm her to show her teeth. He’d be most happy to toss the woman out on her bony arse, if it meant fewer headaches for Louisa.

“Breakfast looks lovely, Mrs. Lang,” Louisa said, moving to the linen-draped table. “Please give Cook our compliments. We can serve ourselves as we did yesterday. Are you as hungry as I, Max?”

“Hungrier.”

“Will you or your husband require anything else? The staff is at your disposal. Mrs. Westlake tells me you wish to make some changes at Rosemont.”

“Nothing that concerns
you
, Mrs. Lang,” Louisa said hurriedly. Good Lord, Louisa was frightened of her own housekeeper. Charles was a little, too. When the servants left, Charles felt his spine relax a fraction. Oddly enough, he was more worried about being found out as a fraud by the Rosemont staff. Class differentiation was ingrained so deeply in British society his every vowel was suspect. He’d worked hard to overcome his working-class background and accent, but the scrappy boy within would never be totally eradicated.

He sat, noting that Louisa had resorted to artificial color on her cheeks. He had passed an indifferent night as well, imagining he could hear every sigh and rustle of her bedcovers through three doors. Had she touched herself in thwarted desire as he had? At this rate, he’d be blind in both eyes by the end of the month.

But he wasn’t going to leave. Not until Louisa got the upper hand over her household, even if it meant his hands grew hairy. Not that he believed such nonsense. The boys at Harrow would have resembled apes if such tales were true.

He speared a pair of sausages from the platter. Once again there was more food than two people could possibly eat. Louisa contented herself with buttering a perfect toast triangle, avoiding the meat and eggs altogether.

“You’re going to fade away,” Charles said, passing her a cut-glass dish of raspberry jam.

“I doubt it. Have you ever noticed how much people like us eat?”

“‘People like us’ again.”

“You know what I mean. All this food can’t be good for one.”

“Didn’t you tell me your aunt went on some sort of slimming regimen?”

“She’s rabid about her figure. For a while, she would only eat green things.”

“I presume that’s what sent her to bed too weak to be mean.” Charles popped a sausage chunk in his mouth. “An army can’t move without meat, you know.”

“I have no objection to a nice joint—just not at breakfast.”

“You really should try one of the sausages. They’re very good. There’s some sort of spice I can’t identify.”

“Cook makes her own. I’ve watched her. One should never watch sausages being made.”

Charles laughed. “So you know your way around the kitchen?”

“I would never say that—I’m no cook, though I believe I can boil water and roll out biscuit dough with the best of them. I did spend a lot of time in the kitchen when I was young, but as I grew older I moved on to the conservatory. I should show it to you before we leave for our ride. Griffith tells me he took care of my plants personally with the help of the head gardener.” Her eyes rested on the ceramic urn they had been given as a wedding present, which still rested on the sill. “We can bring that downstairs. I’m sure something can use repotting.”

“So you have a green thumb.”

“And all my other fingers as well,” Louisa said with a grin, wiggling them. “Minding my plants is the only feminine domestic skill I’ve got. Don’t ask me to paint or sing or play the piano. Sewing is absolutely out of the question.”

She was more than feminine enough for him. Charles reached for another sausage. “I’ve heard you sing, remember. You’re not so bad.”

“There are excellent acoustics in the bath. All that tile. And one can’t go wrong with Christmas carols.”

They lingered over breakfast, Louisa succumbing to some fruit and a small bowl of porridge while Charles worked his way through the eggs and mushrooms and every last sausage. He might have overdone it a bit, but in a little while he’d get sufficient exercise. Until he’d come to Rosemont, he’d been on limited rations for a very long time, partly out of economy, mostly out of sheer lack of appetite. Nothing had interested him but his gin bottle and its longed-for obliteration. When he’d remembered to eat, he’d subsisted on tinned food and weak tea over a spirit stove in his room at Mrs. Jarvis’s. He couldn’t afford to pay her board, not that the scents coming from her kitchen were at all inviting.

Once he was done here, he’d have enough money to rent decent lodging. Since it seemed he was not going to kill himself after all, he might even take up George Alexander’s offer for suitable employment. Charles wasn’t sure what he was qualified for, but he was willing to work hard, fill up his days with something useful.

What would Louisa be doing a month from now? Would she be back in Paris or Vienna or Berlin, or up to her eyelashes in the conservatory, forcing some bulb to bloom out of stubborn will, her apron freckled with dirt? The poor plant would have no choice but to bend and thrive to her desire.

Just as he had. She was a force of nature, plucking him out of his gloom and setting him back on his feet with a few judicious words and a cloud of violets.

He pushed himself away from the table with some reluctance. She had been relaxed with him this morning—they had chatted as if they were old friends. Were, in fact, husband and wife. But that was not to be, even with his precipitous proposal.

“Show me this jungle of yours.” He picked up the planter from the sill and hefted it into the crook of his arm. Now that he looked at it, he saw it was not painted but covered in tiny mosaic tiles. The pattern was faintly Arabic and quite lovely, its brilliant blue glaze contrasting with pure white. Orientalism had been all the rage in the last century—he’d learned that in his art history book.

Once he followed Louisa downstairs to the lush indoor garden, he recognized exactly why the staff had chosen the urn. The wall adjacent to the house was covered with blue and white tile squares, with occasional touches of green. Birds and flowers and leaves joined together and repeated themselves, their detail quite remarkable. A shallow pool set into the floor shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the design. Small braziers were lit at regular intervals along the brick floor, and three long tables teeming with plant life ran the length of the building. White iron fretwork decorated the arched windows, and the glass ceiling vaulted heavenward. It was hot enough in the room to strip and plunge into the little pool.

“Oh! The fountain is turned off,” Louisa said. “It’s very soothing to work in here when it’s running.”

Charles let out a low whistle and set the heavy urn on a table. “This is amazing. It’s almost like some kind of church.”

“The Cathedral of the Holy Orchid? That’s what my favorite specimens are. Orchids are notoriously difficult, and I’ve lost more than I care to count. But I think Griffith has done a spectacular job. The conservatory was the only thing I missed about Rosemont while I was away, really.” With a gloved fingertip she touched a pale petal of something Charles couldn’t identify. “I guess I should cut some flowers for the altar. The roses should travel well, and I’ll mix them with greenery and ribbon and some dried grasses.”

She picked up a pair of secateurs and a basket from a neatly organized shelf and went to a row of potted rosebushes that flanked the south-facing window. Charles watched as she snipped tightly closed rosebuds, laying them carefully onto the wicker, the bright sunlight limning her body. He missed her breeches, but there would be another scandal for her if she entered the church in them.

“I’ll just wrap up the stems and we’ll be off.”

The air was humid and thick—too thick—and suddenly Charles felt light-headed. He gripped the edge of a table and gulped for air. Heat invaded his lungs, reminding him of Africa. A palm tree in a corner completed the illusion, its fronds somehow vacillating in the still air. The sight in his good eye blurred, then tiny black spots began to dance a demonic jig. A sharp pain divided his body, doubling him over. Too many sausages. Served him right for being a glutton. But damn, they had tasted good.

Louisa was across the room at the sink, oblivious to the fact that he was slipping to the floor. Good grief, he was fainting like some gothic heroine.
Fainting
. He slumped onto the brick, cushioning his head from the blow with an arm. So he had some sense left, but precious little. His stomach twisted and he felt the bile rising. He was going to lose his breakfast, and not a moment too soon if it would alleviate the agony that possessed him. Best to turn himself over so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit—that would be unpleasant, and leave Louisa unprotected. The bricks could be hosed down; there was a drain right there—

Charles lost the rest of his thought as he rolled under the table and retched onto the floor, spilling the lurid contents of his stomach in a very undignified, un-Maximillian way.