Unveiled (4 page)

Ash frowned at her and peered at the unruly curls peeking out from under her cap. “Silver,” he said. “Like moonlight, I think.”

She burst into laughter then, and Ash knew he'd won. It wasn't flirtation—no sense of awareness had passed between him and the housekeeper. It was something sweeter and friendlier. He'd seen her as a person, rather than as a servant, and she knew it.

“There,” Ash said. “It's settled. You'll dine with me.”

Mrs. Benedict acquiesced to Ash's upsetting of a social order older than William the Conqueror with a nod.

Ash turned casually. As he did, he saw Miss Lowell. He started and consciously widened his eyes,
pretending he'd been unaware of her standing two feet off. Her head was turned to regard him, her eyebrows drawn down, as if she were uncertain what he and Mrs. Benedict might have to laugh about. She didn't know he'd already identified her by the faint hint of roses that trailed around her, filling the entryway with her subtle perfume. That, and he'd known no other house servant would have dared to come down the main staircase with the housekeeper watching.

“Ah,” Ash said, “and this solves the other half of our dilemma, Mrs. Benedict. Our numbers are still uneven. My brother and I couldn't possibly sit down to table with just you. We'd overwhelm you with our idiotic masculinity.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Ash said, with great finality. And then he let out a great sigh. “There's only one possible solution. I suppose Miss Lowell will have to join us, as well.”

M
R.
T
URNER'S ILL-FATED
supper invitation actually went a long way towards easing Margaret's fears. He had seemed so persuasive, so glib, that she had begun to worry he would soon lead all the servants astray. But he could, after all, make mistakes. This one would prove enlightening.

There was a reason servants did not sit with their masters at table, and it had nothing to do with pride or condescension. Margaret folded her hands primly in her lap, as the footmen served the soup course. She was in for what promised to be an evening of very awkward conversation.

What was Mr. Turner to do, after all? He couldn't very well ask Mrs. Benedict about the course of her day. What could the woman possibly say in answer? “Well, I pressed your laundry, polished your silver and then oversaw the preparation of your meals.” No doubt Mr. Turner thought this meal would be a perfect opportunity to impose upon Margaret. She suppressed a grim smile.

The classes didn't mix.

At one time, she might have thought that with haughty self-assurance, content in her own superiority. Now, she understood it as a bleak truth. Every lady of her acquaintance had stopped answering her letters—even Elaine who had once clung shyly to her side.

The walls of the dining hall were decorated with the portraits of dukes from ages past. Even her own ancestors would look down their noses at her, if they could see her through their painted eyes.

But she hardly fit with the servants. She was both mistress and supplicant, nurse and daughter of the house. She was isolated from everyone. It might have been petty of her, but she was glad that Mr. Turner was about to taste some of that same bitter solitude.

There was not the slightest indication on Mr. Turner's face that he knew the tangle that awaited him. His valet had arrived in the servants' coach and had turned him out splendidly. Those broad shoulders were only emphasized by his navy blue coat. His dark hair was rumpled almost perfectly, and the crisp lines of his cravat formed the perfect contrast with his easy manner. He was far too handsome for his own good.

Handsome or not, he'd soon discover that the boundaries of rank and privilege could not be superseded by decree, no matter how warm the accompanying smile. It didn't matter where anyone ate. Servants were still servants. Bastards were still bastards.

But nobody had informed Mr. Turner of this incontrovertible fact. As the footmen placed wide bowls of celery soup before them, he turned towards Mrs. Benedict. The housekeeper was seated at his honored right. When Margaret had dined with her family, they'd used the entire expanse of their long dining room table. Mr. Turner, apparently, had asked for other arrangements. This table had been procured, and it felt small and close and uncomfortable, as if they were attending a crowded dinner party. Without the party.

“Mrs. Benedict,” Mr. Turner said as the footmen whisked the covers off the green soup, “I was thinking
of investing in cotton, and I wished to ask you a few things.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Benedict's face turned red. “Mr. Turner, I know how to dose a goose with castor oil, and I have a secret formula to get the shine back into silver. Investment—” she pronounced the word gingerly, as if holding up a dirty handkerchief “—that's not for the likes of me.”

Inwardly, Margaret nodded.

“You want to talk to one of your peers, or a solicitor. I'm just a simple housekeeper.”

Mr. Turner picked up a spoon. “Nonsense. It is precisely
your
opinion I want. Men of my station would simply sniff and tell me nobody of good breeding wears cotton, and not to bother with it. But there's money to be made if I ignore the gentry's prejudice. I could sell five hundred times the amount to people like you. You are important.”

As Mr. Turner spoke, Margaret could see a change pass over Mrs. Benedict. She unfolded her arms. Her eyes widened. By the time Mr. Turner favored her with his final, brilliant smile, the woman had a soft, foolish grin in place.

“Well.” She fiddled with the cutlery and looked up. “There's rags to start. Cotton—it absorbs water, and so I've used it for dishcloths.”

Mr. Turner nodded. “Go on.” He tasted his soup and looked back at Mrs. Benedict, focusing on her as if she were the only person in the universe. She continued, tentatively at first, and then with greater confidence. As she spoke, Mr. Turner leaned towards the housekeeper, his gaze riveted on her. Every aspect of his face said the same thing:
You matter. You are important. Your observations are valuable.

It stung. Not just that Mr. Turner ignored Margaret; her pride had been beaten down enough over the past few months that such a slight would hardly even tickle. No. It stung that she was
wrong.
It stung that he could transition from a man who could court votes in Parliament, to someone who could sit down and talk to a servant and find his welcome. That he should belong everywhere with everyone, while she had no place with anyone.

Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Turner progressed from the topic of cotton to the mill in the village, and from there to tenant farmers. Margaret was so used to her father's style of autocratic demand. Every word he voiced was a command. It came out a shout, as if he had to rail to be heard above the cacophony of a wide and clamorous world. Mr. Turner spoke quietly, but everyone strained forwards to hear his words.

Even Margaret.

He was good at winning others over, she realized. It did not augur well for her future. What would happen when he brought this smiling bonhomie to bear on the members of the House of Lords who would decide the question of legitimacy? Richard might scream and protest and threaten, but it was not often the lords got to choose their own members. Had she no personal stake in the matter, she would have chosen Mr. Turner, too.

She stared grimly ahead of her. Her soup was replaced with creamed peas; peas were followed by fresh-caught fish, and fish by roast beef. She watched the plates stream by, unable to do more than take a few forkfuls of food. If her brother was not legitimized, the vast bulk of the family's entailed inheritance would fall to Mr. Turner. She had no illusions about her rela
tive importance. Her two brothers would lay claim to whatever scraps remained.

She could feel all her hopes for the future dissolving in the wake of his damnable likeableness.

Mrs. Benedict spread her hands, continuing a conversation Margaret had ceased to follow. “There's always been land disputes, sir.”

“I'll talk to them, then.” Mr. Turner spoke as if any problems would simply be concluded with a bit of plain speaking. Likely, Margaret thought bitterly, with him, they would be. Life seemed to rain gifts on this man. Wealth. Station. Legitimacy.

Margaret didn't think she would have dared to dislike him, had he not taken so much from her. She looked away, feeling petty.

“Miss Lowell. You have my apologies. We're boring you.”

Her eyes cut back to him. “No. Of course not.”

“Yes, we are. It's either that or we're upsetting you. I won't stand for either. Come now. What is it?”

“It's just…” She searched for an answer that would satisfy him. But as she looked into his face, all thoughts of lies disappeared. “You are the most cheerfully ruthless individual I have ever met.”

A big grin spread over his face, and he gave a guffaw. “Cheerfully ruthless! I like that. Should I adopt it as my motto? Would it look well on my coat of arms? Mark, how do you say ‘cheerfully ruthless' in Latin?”

“Nequam quidem sumus,”
his brother intoned. It was the first he'd spoken all evening, and he said the words dreamily. Up until that point, she'd thought he was the fine young scholar that he appeared—a little distracted, and wiry-thin. But Margaret had spent time around her brothers when they came home from
Eton—enough to recognize a few words of impolite Latin. She choked.

Mark looked across the table at her, all blond good looks, and dropped her a wink. Margaret revised her estimate of him from “painfully serious scholar” to “mischievous schoolboy.”

“Alas,” the elder Mr. Turner said, “that lacks a certain panache.”

“Don't you know Latin?” Margaret asked in surprise.

“Never went to school.” He leaned back in his chair. “Never had the time for it. I went to India with a hundred and fifty pounds in my pocket, determined at fourteen to make my fortune. But Mark's the scholar now.” He turned to his brother, and it was obvious from every line on his face, from the fierce smile that overtook him, that this was no idle boast. No matter what his brother might have said in Latin. “Did you know that he's writing a book?”

“Ash,” Mark said, with all the unease of a younger brother being praised.

“His essays have been published in the
Quarterly Review;
did you know that? Three of them, now.”

“Ash.”

“The queen herself quoted from one not two months prior. I had that from a friend.”

“Ash.” The younger Mr. Turner ducked his head and put his hand in front of his face. “Don't listen to him. It was frippery. Pretty language, but nothing original. Nothing to be really pleased about. Besides, she didn't even remember my name.”

“She will.” There was a glow in Mr. Turner's eyes. “When you're the brother of a duke? She'll know your
name, your birth date and the number of teeth you had pulled at eleven years of age.”

Mr. Turner leaned forwards, as if speaking a vow.

And, she realized, he was.

Margaret felt the bottom fall out of her stomach.
This
was what he wanted—not her father's estate, nor his title, nor even the revenge he'd spoken about.
This
was where all that ruthless intensity concentrated: on his brother.

And Mark, for all his teasing, accepted this as his due. He simply took, as a matter of course, that his brother loved him, that he might tease him in Latin and receive this…this powerful endorsement. Mr. Turner would never call his brother useless. Of all the things that the Turners had and Margaret lacked, this camaraderie seemed the most unfair.

“Yes,” he said, catching her look. “More of my cheerful ruthlessness, I'm afraid. And now you know my greatest weakness: my brothers. I want to give them everything. I want everyone in the world to realize how perfect they are. They are smarter than me, better than me. And I'll do
anything
—cross anyone, steal anything, destroy whatever I must—to give them what they deserve.”

Margaret dropped her eyes from that fervor. She felt strangely small and intensely jealous.

She had never felt that sort of ardor about anything—or anyone—in her life. The table seemed even tinier in that large room, a tiny craft adrift on a wide sea of parquet. Behind her, the stares of her painted ancestors bored into her back.

She drew in a deep breath and turned to his younger brother. He looked a little embarrassed at that out-
burst—but not surprised or uncomfortable. Just as if his brother had ruffled his hair.

“So, Mr. Mark Turner. What is this book you're writing?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Just Mark will do. It'll be confusing enough if you have to call us both Turner.”

Both the Turners were rather too casual. But as a servant, Margaret could hardly object. She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

“I'm writing about chastity.”

She waited for him to guffaw. Or even to give her that mischievous grin again, signaling this was another of his schoolboy pranks.

He didn't.

“Chastity?” she repeated weakly.

“Chastity.”

He hadn't said it as one would expect to hear the word—with serious overtones, in a humble, reverent voice. He said it with a sparkle in his eye and a lift to his mouth, as if chastity were the best thing in the world. Margaret had met a great many of her brother's friends. This was not an attitude that was common among young gentlemen. Quite the opposite.

“You see,” he continued, “the focus in all the works on chastity to date has often been so philosophical that it fails to engage the general populace on a moral level. My goal is to start with a practical approach, and…” He trailed off, with the air of someone realizing that his enthusiasm for a subject was not matched by those around him. “It's enormously exciting.”

“I can see that.”

Mr. Mark Turner was the same age as Edmund, a few years younger than Richard. She couldn't imagine
her brothers—or any of their friends—writing a philosophical defense of chastity. They likely couldn't even speak the word without laughing.

Her lip curled in memory.

“Chastity,” said the elder Mr. Turner in a dry voice, “is not one of the things I'd planned for my younger brother to embrace.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. The two men exchanged level glances. What was encoded in those looks, Margaret could not say.

“This isn't a conversation for mixed company,” Mrs. Benedict put in.

Mark shook himself and looked away. “Too true. Alas, my work is by necessity aimed at men. If I were to write about chastity for women, it would no doubt slant towards a different sort of practicality.”

“Oh?” Margaret asked.

“Don't encourage him,” Mr. Turner warned. “When he has that gleam in his eye, no good can come of it.”

Margaret turned to Mark. “Consider yourself encouraged.”

Beside her, Mr. Turner made a noise of exasperation.

“I was thinking more of a compendium. ‘Places to strike a man so as to best preserve one's virtue.'”

“What?” said Mr. Turner. “There's more than the one?”

“Gentlemen,” pleaded Mrs. Benedict, but to no avail.

“What do you say, Miss Lowell? Would ladies have any interest in such a guide?” Mark smiled at her. “Ash tells me you've no family to speak of. Does that mean no brother has ever taught you to defend yourself?”