Tempted (7 page)

Chapter Six

But four hours later, Mary felt less than smug. Rain had begun to fall again. Blimey. Would it never end? It was as if all the water in the ocean had been swooped into the sky to be dumped down upon them.

Now, Mary were used to rain. Fact is, growing up in a coastal town she’d seen more than her fair share of Nor’easters. But she had never, ever seen rain like this. It fell down the window in streams so thick, she couldn’t see through the glass. It leaked through the roof, oft times pelting her smack in the face, making Mary wonder what the blazes the purpose of the roof
was,
if not to shield her from the elements?

But what chaffed her the worst, what made her want to tell the coachman to pull over so she could ride up top with his lordship (rain and all), was that Miss Gabriella had woken up and she was now engaged in the task of making Mary’s life hell.

Mary: “Are you comfortable?”

Gabby: “Not with you in the same carriage.”

Mary: “Do you need to empty your bladder?” Gabby: “Only common people empty their bladders.” Mary: “Would you like my cloak again?”

Gabby: “It smells.”

And so it went. On and on.

And on.

And on.

Mary wanted to clutch at her hair and jerk it out of her skull just so she’d have something less painful to do. It didn’t help matters that she was worried about Abu, though truth be told, he was used to traveling in the confines of her satchel. Still, if he took it into his head to raise a fuss, the postillions above him, or worse, one of the Bow Street Runners behind them might hear him, though with the rain falling so hard they’d be lucky to catch any sound other than that of rain running down their ear canals.

Well, no sense worrying about it now.

And no sense in worrying about those Runners, either. If they checked her references and discovered the only thing she’d nursed was a headache after imbibing too much ale, she’d be gone afore they could say Tom’n Punch.

Gabby began to complain in earnest then, the rain falling harder. The hole in Mary’s boot allowed a chill to spread that started at the arch of her foot and ended at her ears. She tried to warm herself by covering her lobes with her hands, accidentally smacking Gabby in the jaw with her elbow as she did so.

“Sorry, lass,” she mumbled, rubbing at her freezing flesh.

“No you’re not,” Gabby said.

Mary rolled her eyes, too cold to argue. She looked out the window, and stiffened.

In the evening light it almost looked like a mirage, a figment of her imagination spun by a bored mind and soggy windows. “Lord above,” she said, “would you look at that?”

Gabby reluctantly followed her gaze, the snide look on her face fading as she said, “Wainridge.”

Wainridge?

“My grandfather.”

Grandfather?

The
duke
?

But then Mary stiffened as another revelation dawned. One so startling, so unexpected, Mary could scarce believe it.

Wainridge, she’d said. Could it be…Wicked Wainridge?

Was the bleedin’ duke of Debauchery his lordship’s father?

She leaned forward, now all agog to see the place. “Lawks,” she observed, could it be?

“It must have a hundred rooms,” Mary said as they got closer.

“Two-hundred-fifty-five,” Gabby corrected.

“And look at the park it sits in.” Huge that park was, the trees having long ago been cleared by nature, or more likely, a man’s hand. Green grass dotted with little white clover flowers surrounded the structure. Granted, they were wilting beneath the onslaught of rain, but Mary didn’t care. Set behind a massive lake, the walls of the home—if one wanted to call it merely a “home”— rose
five
stories high. Square and long, Mary counted twenty chimneys before she gave up. Tall, oblong windows reflected a cloudy sky. And even though rain fell, even though a wind kicked up small waves on the lake, Mary knew she’d never seen anything so grand in all her life.

“Lord above,” she found herself whispering. The thought of going inside that home made her bowels loosen but good.

Then Gabby turned toward her and said, “My grandfather will put you in your place.”

But the fact is, Mary already felt put in her place. What the blazes would it be like to live in such splendor? No worries about your toes being turned blue by the cold. No rats crawling over your blanket at night. No potato stew day in and day out. Just untold luxury that never went away and that you likely would never use up.

Gravel popped and crunched as they rolled closer. When they stopped, a liveried footman emerged from the double-wide front door, and even though it rained, the glass in that door still sparkled. The footman halted midway down the fifteen or so steps that had water pouring down it like a waterfall. Then he resumed his descent, bowing his head as Alex climbed down from the coachman’s seat with a sway of the coach.

Mary couldn’t hear what he said, but the footman darted back inside. Alex—no, his lordship; heir to a bleedin’ dukedom, she reminded herself—turned toward the coach.

Mary felt her breath catch. Hell’s fires, she couldn’t stop herself. He were so handsome. So very, very handsome. Even with his hair slicked back from the rain, drops of it creeping down his face and moistening his skin, he looked so noble and so proud he reminded her of that hawk who’d liked to perch near the circus. His great cloak flirted with his legs, the fabric brushing away beads of rain from his sodden boots.

“Gabby, go inside,” he said as he opened the door, allowing a gust of wind to sweep in rain.

Gabby wasted no time, shooting her The Look as she climbed all but over her to get out.

Mary made a move to follow. Alex—no, his lordship, she corrected yet again—stayed her with a hand.

“Henry will guide you and the Runners to the servants’ entrance.”

The servants’—

He shut the door.

Mary stiffened. She’d forgotten she was a servant for a moment.

It was warmer inside than outside, and for that Mary was grateful, even as she privately stewed for being summarily dismissed by his high and mightiness. But that warmth served to make Mary aware of just how cold she was. The wraith-thin housekeeper spared her hardly a glance as she bustled about, all in a dither because of the marquis’s unexpected arrival, and the fact that he’d brought Bow Street Runners with him. Those Runners were getting the lay of the land presently, or so they’d told Mary before departing for parts unknown. Good. As long as they were busy they weren’t looking after her.

So it was that Mary found herself waiting to be told what to do, alone, trying not to stare around her in awe. China the likes of which she’d never seen before filled a pantry near where she stood. A long corridor intersected the kitchen from other small rooms, maids in dark uniforms and footmen in maroon and white livery moving back and forth as they prepared for dinner.

“Who are you?”

Mary jumped. A woman who could be Mrs. Grimes’s double stared down at her. Gray hair pulled back in a bun, lined face and watery blue eyes.

“Mary Callahan, mum,” she said with a curtsy. “I’m Miss Gabriella’s new nurse.”

“You’re in the way.” She pointed. “Servants’ stairs are that way. Someone will direct you to your room.”

Why the devil Mary suddenly felt so small and meaningless, she had no idea. Always she’d prided herself on her self worth. And yet suddenly she felt like a grain of sand at the bottom of a pool.

She headed off in the direction pointed out to her, various people helping her along the way. It seemed to take forever to reach the long and narrow servants’ stairwell, Mary blowing a hank of hair out of her face as she began to climb. Poor Abu, who’d suffered through the cold ride all alone in her satchel, moved about a bit.

“Almost there,” she told the little monkey as she climbed what seemed to be the tenth landing.

“Actually, you’ve still a ways to go.”

Mary yelped, so engrossed in Abu she hadn’t seen the little man who stood four steps above her.

He moved toward her, though it was a slow descent and only done with the assistance of a silver-tipped walking stick. She couldn’t make out his features in the muted light of the stairwell, but what she could see piqued her curiosity. He wore a wig, one of those old-fashioned kinds with curls and swirls that reminded Mary of an unshorn sheep’s coat. A blue brocade jacket with a frilly white cravat beneath covered his frail form. Knee breeches with a pouchy front and white stockings tucked into fancy buckled shoes completed the outfit. His face looked painted, though on closer inspection she could see that his pasty complexion looked to be the result of years of bleaching. But the rouge could not be mistaken, nor the patch that sat on the tip of his chin.

Then he lifted a brow upon reaching the landing. And she knew.

Alex stared back. Well, Alex as he would look in a few decades.

“You’re the duke,” she whispered in awe. And in that same instant she realized he was, indeed, Wicked Wainridge.

He bowed slightly. “At your service, madam.” When he straightened he said, “And you are?”

For some reason Mary found herself standing taller, and when she did, his gaze dipped down, just like his son’s did. “Mary Callahan,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

He stepped closer, Mary stiffening as he pulled out a quizzing glass, then began to circle her. It was a very large landing—as big as her room in London—with a small window so she had a perfect view of him as he circled like a buzzard. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary—” he began.

She held up a hand. “Don’t say another word. Not if you value your life, your grace.”

She could see his rheumy old eyes light up with an odd sort of sparkle as he contemplated her. For half a second she wondered if Alex’s father were batty, but, no, he didn’t look crazed. She’d seen crazed before.

“You’re a saucy one,” he pronounced. “Are you new to my son’s staff?”

“I am.”

Mary felt his gaze rove over her again and if she hadn’t been so certain she could tip him over with a breath, she’d have been a wee bit nervous. As it was she said, “You’re looking at me like I’m a
petit four,
your grace, and I don’t like it.”

He smiled. “Why of course I’m staring at you. You’re a bonny one, you are. Rather makes me wish for the old days when I would have pounced on you with alacrity.”

“If you did, you’d find yourself pounc
ing
down the stairs with alacrity.”

He chuckled. Mary stared in fascination.
This is what the marquis would look like if he laughed.
She found herself amazed by the sight.

“Remind me of my first mistress, you do. Rose was her name, as fair and saucy a wench as ever crossed a London street.” And then, to her absolute shock, he moved behind her and settled himself on a step, his breath wheezing out a bit as he did. “What has my son told you about me?”

If someone had told Mary she’d have a duke sitting at her feet, she’d have laughed herself silly over the idea. Yet here one was. “What do you mean?”

“Has he mentioned me at all?”

“I didn’t even know we were coming here.”

“Ach. Likely you wouldn’t be here, either, if it hadn’t been for the rain.”

She stared.

“So he’s mentioned nothing of me?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Pity. Must be losing my touch. I was certain he’d have warned you against me. He must think me too old and infirm to be of much danger now, and I’m afraid he’d be right.”

“I assure you, your grace, I’ve no idea what it is your son thinks.”

“Hmm. I suppose not.”

“Though if it makes you feel better, I
have
heard of you.”

“Have you?”

She nodded. “Aye. Saw a drawing of you in the paper. ‘The Current Duke of Wainridge’ was the heading. And below that was a caption saying, ‘Wicked Wainridge lives up to his family name,’ and below that was the drawing of a maid and your face in her, um, bubbys.”

“Is that so?” the duke guffawed.

“Aye, though I never thought in a million months of Sundays that I’d actually meet you one day.”

He wheezed in a way that could only be a laugh, but didn’t truly sound like one. “I bet not,” he said. “Though those days are long gone. But tell me, my dear, what do you do for my son?”

“I’m his daughter’s nurse.”

The duke winced. “Poor lass. I wouldn’t wish the little hellion on anyone. ’Course I hardly get to see her.” He turned to stare at her with light blue eyes which had gone rheumy with age or excess. “Alex doesn’t approve. He’s afraid I’ll corrupt her.” He looked down at his hands, his expression turning sad.

Mary found herself staring, a part of her still disbelieving that she was having a conversation with an honest-to-goodness duke, another part of her finding it odd that even noble families had skeletons in their closets.

“Well,” he said, pushing himself to his feet with more creaks than a ship’s deck. “It was nice chatting with you, Mary Callahan.” He stared down at her. “By the by, this is not a servants’ stairwell. The maids here are a bunch of old hens. They ofttimes play pranks on visiting staff. You’d best go ’round back and use the stairwell to the north. I’ll show you, if you like.”