The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (21 page)

Georgina, a slight, flaxen-haired
chambermaid—one of Mrs. Garner’s best—took on a challenging posture
as he turned back, brushing his hands down the front of his coat.
She swatted his arm, sending dust pluming up from the cloth. “After
you let Hugo knock the poor lady sideways, she could have demanded
you be sacked, Connell O’Malley. If anyone should be thanked, it
should be her.”

The coachman looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ in a dither. It’s not good fer the
babe.”

Georgina cast a skittish glance over her
shoulder at Mrs. Garner, probably wondering if the housekeeper
overheard. She needn’t have worried. Mrs. Garner knew everything
that went on in Wyatt House, including that her best chambermaid
was expecting her fourth child. The truth was, the lass should have
been sent home after the first one. But she begged to be allowed to
continue her work, said that her mother was happy to care for the
wee ones while she and Connell saved up for a house of their
own.

Their situation was unusual, but that was
true of many of the servants working for Lord Atherbourne. Billings
was mostly deaf and well past the age when he should have been
shuffled off to retirement. Connell, an Irishman who’d grown up in
Whitechapel, was too young to be considered for any position other
than a lowly groom. Cook had spent a spell in Newgate after a nasty
disagreement with her not-so-dearly-departed husband. And then
there was Mrs. Garner, herself. Try as she might, she could not
manage the decorum demanded of most housekeepers in the finer
households of London. She talked too much, had the wrong accent,
and as a former employer once said, exhibited “an abundance of
energy which is taxing to witness.”

Lucien Wyatt, and his brother before him, did
not care a whit for appearances. They had kept Billings on because
the dear old man loved being a butler, and despite his deficient
hearing and painfully slow gait, he was one of the best she had
ever seen—efficient, proper, discreet, and a firm but fair manager
of the male servants. Similarly, Connell and Cook had been elevated
to their positions upon demonstrating excellence in their tasks.
Very few employers took any interest whatever in their servants’
lives. Most would prefer to hire new, rather than rewarding their
staff with greater responsibility and increased wages. But both
Wyatt boys were a different breed. They were reasonable in their
demands, generous, and loyal, which had, in turn, earned the
undying loyalty of Mrs. Garner and the others.

That sentiment was being challenged, however,
with Lord Atherbourne’s latest mandate. When he had first
introduced his new viscountess, none of them had known what to
expect. They had all heard tales of new mistresses turning into
monsters after the honeymoon. But they soon discovered
their
new mistress was as sweet as a sugar cone, listening to Mrs. Garner
blather on, patiently repeating herself so Billings could hear, and
insisting Connell’s mistake with Hugo be forgotten. In a thousand
tiny ways, she had shown herself to be rather extraordinarily kind.
Mrs. Garner could not fathom how Lord Atherbourne could gaze into
those big, blue-green eyes and see the man he hated, rather than
the wife he should love. Why, just this afternoon, she had longed
to hug the young woman, herself. But even Mrs. Garner knew some
overtures were beyond the pale.

Agnes sauntered back into the kitchen, placed
the requested herbs on the work table, and planted her hands on her
hips. Cook glanced at the maid over her shoulder. “Mint’s taking an
awfully long time these days.”

Unfazed, her chin rose. “Some bloke came by
the mews gate. Curious one, he was.”

Mrs. Garner frowned. “What ’ave I told ye
about flirtin’ with all and sundry—”

She snorted. “Wouldn’t flirt with that one.
Ragged as a dog’s forgotten bone. He was asking about her
ladyship.”

Lady Atherbourne’s new lady’s maid, Emily,
spoke from behind Mrs. Garner. “Dark-haired, bit like a wolfhound
about the face?”

Mrs. Garner turned to stare at the young,
blond girl, who had worked as one of the upstairs maids before
being reassigned by the new viscountess. “Ye seen this gentleman,
Em?” she asked. It was one thing for saucy, disobedient Agnes to
engage a stranger in conversation while working, but Emily was a
good girl.

Nodding, Emily answered, “Aye. Week before
last, at Covent Garden. Claimed he worked for her brother.”

“And he ain’t no gentleman, you ask me,”
Agnes muttered.

Alarm rang a peal down Mrs. Garner’s spine.
“Ye didn’t tell ’im nothing, did ye?” The two maids looked at each
other, then back at Mrs. Garner sheepishly. It told the housekeeper
all she needed to know.

“Seemed harmless enough, Mrs. Garner,” Emily
said abashedly. “All he said was her brother, the duke, wanted to
know she was well.”

Coming back through the doorway with another
armload of wood, Connell stopped mid-stride. “You talkin’ about the
runner?” he asked.

They all blinked at the coachman. “Runner?”
three of them said in unison.

He dumped his burden on the previous pile and
dusted his hands. “Aye. One o’ them Bow Street blokes. Me cousin
Davey works in ’is grace’s stables. ’E said the duke ’ired the
runner straight away after the weddin’.”

Well, well. It seemed the duke was determined
to look after his sister, even from a distance.
And she deserves
looking after,
thought Mrs. Garner. Shaking her head and
planting her hands on her hips in a posture the others knew meant
business, she announced, “I’ve heard enough. It’s time to get back
to yer tasks, not stand about gossiping.” She gave them all a stern
glare. “If I hear ye all are talkin’ to tha’ Bow Street fellow,
tellin’ him of his lordship’s private doings, ye can be
certain-sure ye’ll be missin’ a day’s wages fer that week, as ye’ll
not be workin’ on Saturday. Now, off with ye.”

They all scampered out of the kitchen,
leaving her and Cook alone. Wiping her hands on a cloth before
bending over the fancy new range Master Lucien had ordered
installed, Cook said wryly, “Don’t want to tell you your job,
Gertie, but giving them an extra day off ain’t much of a deterrent.
More like incentive.”

Starting toward the doorway leading to the
dining room, Mrs. Garner sniffed. “Can I help it if they flap their
jaws? No. All I can tell ’em is what happens when ye do—ye don’t
work Saturday, and her ladyship might end up reunited with her
brother.” She returned Cook’s sly grin with a small one of her own.
“The rest is up to them.”

*~*~*

Chapter Sixteen

“
We are frequently referred to as the gentler
sex. Foolish notion. Women are far more vicious than men. We are
simply better at disguising it.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham to the Countess of Berne after a particularly spiteful
Thursday luncheon.

With its walls of pale canary silk, ornate
settees and chairs upholstered in pink florals and burgundy
stripes, and assorted portraits of female ancestors on every wall,
Lady Wallingham’s parlor was an ode to femininity.

How appropriate, then, that it was currently
occupied by no fewer than seven women, Victoria included, sipping
tea from delicate china cups and chatting about the latest
on-dits
. Lady Wallingham sat near the fireplace, holding
court. The regal tilt of her head as she listened to Lady Berne’s
account of a recent musicale gave her the look of a swan surrounded
by ducks.

Annabelle Huxley chimed in, describing the
horrid orange dress one performer had worn. The other ladies
tittered and joined in with their own observations. Baroness
Colchester, a pinch-faced brunette with gray at her temples and
wrinkles around her mouth, suggested the girl’s intent had been to
distract from her lackluster skills at the pianoforte. Next to her,
the tall, bony Viscountess Rumstoke—who rather eerily resembled a
horse—huffed and wished aloud that such a distraction had been
possible, as she had not experienced such agony since the
Pennywhistle cousins debuted. A collective shudder ran through Lady
Berne, Lady Wallingham, Lady Colchester, and Lady Rumstoke.

That must have been quite a debut,
Victoria thought.

“Must have been some debut.”

The murmured comment from beside her did not
immediately register, first because it had been barely above a
whisper, and second because it closely echoed her own thoughts.
When she glanced at the normally silent Jane Huxley, however, it
was to discover a glint of humor quirking the young woman’s lips
and dancing behind her spectacles.

Victoria cleared her throat and leaned closer
to say quietly, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Wide, dark eyes flew to her own, and flags of
red bloomed on Jane’s round cheeks as though embarrassed to have
been caught expressing a thought.

Victoria smiled at her mischievously and
nodded in Lady Wallingham’s direction. “How long do you think she
will wait to declare all musicales a torturous waste of time?”

From across the room, Lady Wallingham said
archly, “Musicales are, at best, tedious and, at worst, abject
misery. I shall never attend another.”

Jane and Victoria blinked at one another and
stifled their laughter behind their hands. Tension left Jane’s
shoulders, and she looked at Victoria curiously. “Do you know Lady
Wallingham well, then?”

Victoria took a sip of tea and shook her
head. “I have only seen her on three occasions. Four, including
today.”

Jane tilted her head as she examined the
dowager marchioness. “I have often wondered whether she was born
with such boldness or if life has made her so,” she said, her tone
almost wistful.

“Likely some combination of the two, I would
imagine.”

The plump young woman sighed, nodded, and
sipped her tea, wrinkling her short, rounded nose at the
flavor.

“The tea is excellent, is it not?” Victoria
said, more to keep a conversation going than because of any special
fondness for it.

“Oh! Yes, I suppose so. Um, what I mean—I am
… Oh, bother!”

Victoria smiled encouragingly. “Not to your
taste?”

“I—I prefer coffee, actually. I take it with
cream and a bit of sugar. It is my favorite thing. Well, except for
chocolate. And books, of course.” The last bit came out breathless,
as though Jane had been holding the confession inside through force
of will.

“What is your favorite book?”

One of Jane’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Rather
like choosing a favorite shade of blue, my lady. Each is beautiful
in its own way.”

Victoria nodded. “As a painter, that sounds
perfectly sensible to me. But you still haven’t said what your
favorite is.”

Gleaming with fierce intelligence, Jane’s
eyes reflected her quick cataloging and discarding of titles as she
considered her answer. “Understand you are forcing an artificial
construct upon that which cannot possibly be measured.”

Victoria smiled. “Of course.”

“
Pride and Prejudice
.”
The
young woman whispered it, a slight flush lighting her cheeks.

“I have heard of it, but have not read it
yet. Is it wonderful, then?”

Victoria was surprised at how Jane came alive
in that moment, animatedly describing the romance of Miss Elizabeth
Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Jane was positively rapturous over the surly
Mr. Darcy in particular, explaining that he was woefully
misunderstood.

“You see,
pride
in his position within
society was in many ways to be expected, but he shows admirable
strength of character in setting aside those presumptions and
following the dictates of his heart—devotion to his Elizabeth.”

“You describe it so beautifully, Lady Jane. I
shall purchase the book myself as soon as I can arrange it.”
Victoria wrinkled her nose. “I would do so after the luncheon
today, but I must return home directly, as we are to attend the
theatre this evening.”

Her companion glanced right and left, then
stared hard at Lady Wallingham, who was harrumphing over the
“abominable” refreshments offered at Almack’s. Jane then reached
surreptitiously behind her and withdrew a slim, brown book. It was
creased and careworn, the leather lighter at the edges from being
handled and read frequently.

She slipped it to Victoria, placing it on the
cushion between them. “Take mine,” she whispered.

Victoria immediately shook her head. “I
couldn’t possibly …”

“I have several other copies stashed about
the house. Besides, it is only the first volume of three. Take it.
Please. If you like it, I can lend you the rest.”

Tucking the book beneath the fold of her
skirt, Victoria clasped Jane’s hand in her own, squeezing warmly.
“Thank you, Lady Jane.”

She squeezed in return. “Just Jane will do.
And you are most welcome. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have,
though I am not sure it is possible.”

Victoria chuckled at the young woman’s wry
tone. “And you must call me Victoria.”

“With pleasure. Victoria.”

They chatted amiably for several minutes
before Lady Colchester interrupted with a shrill, “Lady Atherbourne
must certainly know.”

The room fell silent as Victoria focused on
the woman. “I beg your pardon, Lady Colchester. What must I
know?”

“Why, whether dampening one’s skirts is
common practice among the demimonde,” she sneered.

Victoria should have been prepared for the
insulting comment. She had walked into the Wallingham parlor
expecting just such an attack on her moral character. However,
coming amidst her pleasant conversation with Jane, the verbal slap
momentarily stunned her. As she reeled from the impact, the silence
stretched and sagged under its own weight.