Then came you, by lisa kleypas.txt Page 18

  "I'm afraid it isn't, my lord."

  "Then why stay?"

  "Miss Lawson is an ... unusual woman."

  "Some call it eccentric," Alex said dryly. "Tell me what she's done to merit such loyalty."

  Burton's impassive facade seemed to fade, just for a moment, and there was something almost like fondness in his eyes.

  "Miss Lawson has a compassionate heart, my lord, and a remarkable lack of prejudice. When she arrived in London two years ago, I was in a rather difficult situation, working for an employer who was often inebriated and abusive. Once, while intoxicated, he inflicted a wound on my side with a shaving razor. Another time he summoned me to his room and waved a loaded pistol in front of my face, threatening to shoot me."

  "Hell." Alex regarded him with surprise.

  "Why didn't you find employment elsewhere? A butler of your caliber—"

  "I am half Irish, my lord," Burton said quietly. "Most employers require that their highly placed servants belong to the Church

  of England, which I do not. That and my Irish heritage—though not readily apparent—deem me unacceptable to butler most decent English families. Therefore I was trapped in a most intolerable situation. Upon hearing of my dilemna, Miss Lawson offered to employ me at a higher salary than the one I was earning, although she knew I would have worked for much less."

  "I see."

  "Perhaps you begin to, my lord." Burton hesitated and continued in a low tone, as if against his better judgment. "Miss Lawson decided I needed to be rescued. Once she takes such an idea into her head there is no way to stop her. She has 'rescued' many people, though no one seems to realize that she is the one most in need of—" Suddenly he stopped and cleared his throat.

  "I have discoursed quite enough, my lord. Forgive me. Perhaps you'll reconsider the idea of coff-"

  "What were you going to say? That Lily's in need of rescuing? From what? From whom?"

  Burton looked at him blankly, as if he were speaking a foreign language. "Shall I bring this morning's edition of the Times

  along with your headache powder, my lord?"

  * * *

  Henry perched at the long table in the cavernous kitchen, watching in fascination as Monsieur Labarge and the army of apron-

  clad servants worked on a bewildering array of projects. Fragrant sauces and mysterious concoctions bubbled in pots on the cast-iron stove. An entire wall was covered with a staggering collection of shining pots, pans, and molds, an assortment

  Labarge referred to as his batterie de cuisine.

  The chef strode about the room in the manner of a military commander, gesturing with knives, spoons, whatever utensil

  happened to be in his hand. His towering white hat tilted at alarming angles in response to his vigorous movements. He

  barked at the second chef, who was making a sauce far too heavy for a dish of fish wrapped in pastry, and at assistant bakers who had allowed the rolls to brown a shade too dark. The nne, upturned ends of his mustache quivered in wrath as he saw that one of the vegetable maids was cutting the carrots too fine. In sudden, bewildering changes of mood, Labarge would shove tempting dishes in front of Henry and beam approvingly as Henry gobbled up the savory feast. "Ah, le jeune gentilhomme, mange, mange . . . our young gentleman must try some of this . . . and this . . . c'est bien, oui?"

  "Very good," Henry said enthusiastically, around a mouthful of pastry dotted with fruit and lemon cream. "May I have some

  more of those brown things with the sauce?"

  With fatherly pride, the chef brought him a second plate of tiny veal strips sauteed with brandy butter, onions, and mushroom sauce. "The first recipe I learned as a boy, helping mon pere prepare supper for le comte," he reminisced.

  "This is even better than the meals we have at Raiford Park," Henry said.

  Monsieur Labarge responded with many uncomplimentary remarks about English food, calling it flavorless garbage that he

  would not even feed to a dog. This, on the other hand, was French cuisine, as superior to English food as cake was to stale

  bread. Wisely, Henry nodded in agreement and kept eating.

  Just as Henry was forced to set his fork down because his stomach was uncomfortably full, Worthy came to the kitchen

  entrance. "Master Henry," he said gravely, "your brother has arrived. He has made some, er, vigorous statements of concern

  for you. I think it best if you show yourself at once. Come with me, if you please."

  "Oh." Henry's cornflower blue eyes turned round with dismay. He covered his mouth with his palm, suppressing a burp, and

  sighed as he looked around the kitchen. The staff regarded him sympathetically. "It will be a long time before I'll be able to

  come back," Henry said sadly. "Years."

  Monsieur Labarge looked distressed, his thin mustache twitching as he thought rapidly. "Lord Raiford, he has the grand temper, non? Perhaps we shall first offer him poularde a la Periguex . . . or saumon Monpellier ..." The chef paused and considered other delicacies he could prepare, confident that his culinary masterpieces would placate the most savage humor.

  "No," Henry said ruefully, knowing that even Labarge's offering of truffled chicken or salmon in herb sauce wouldn't soothe

  Alex. "I don't think that would work. But thank you, monsieur. This was worth any punishment. I'd spend a month in Newgate

  for one of those sponge cakes with the coffee cream—or that green souffle thing."

  Obviously moved, Labarge clasped Henry's shoulders, kissed both cheeks, and delivered a short speech in French, which Henry couldn't understand. He finished by exclaiming, "Quel jeune homme magnifique—such a boy this is!"

  "Come, Henry." Worthy gestured to the boy. They left the kitchen and walked through the dining rooms. Before they circled to

  the entrance hall, Worthy felt compelled to make a short speech of his own. "Henry ... I suppose you've heard that a gentleman always behaves with discretion. Especially when it comes to discussing matters of, er . . . activity with the fair sex."

  "Yes," Henry said in a perplexed manner. He stared up at Worthy with a slight frown. "Does that mean I shouldn't tell my

  brother about the girls Mr. Craven introduced me to last night?"

  "Unless . . . you feel there is a particular reason for him to know?"

  Henry shook his head. "I can't think of a single reason."

  "Good." Worthy gave a great sigh of relief.

  Contrary to Henry's expectations, Alex was not wearing a thunderous scowl. Actually he seemed rather calm as he stood in

  the entrance hall, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his coat. His clothes were rumpled and his face was covered with heavy stubble. Henry wasn't accustomed to seeing his brother in such disarray. But strangely, Alex looked more relaxed than he had in a long time. There was something rather unsettling about his eyes, a gleam of silver fire, and a devil-may-care expression on his face. Henry frowned, wondering what had happened to him. And why he had appeared this morning, instead of arriving to take him back home last night.

  "Alex," he said, "it was all my fault. I should never have gone without telling you, but I—"

  Alex took him by the shoulders, surveying him critically. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I had a splendid supper last night. I learned to play cribbage with Mr. Craven. I went to bed early."

  Assured of his well-being, Alex gave him a piercing stare. "We're going to have a talk, Henry. About responsibility."

  The boy nodded dutifully, perceiving that it was going to be a long ride home.

  "My lord," Worthy interjected, "on behalf of Mr. Craven and our staff, I would like to say that your brother is an exceptionally well-mannered lad. I have never seen Mr. Craven—not to mention our temperamental chef—so charmed by one person."

  "It's a God-given talent. Henry mastered the art of flattery at a young age." Alex glanced at his younger brother, who wore

/>   a sheepish smile, and then back at the factotum. "Worthy, is Miss Lawson here?"

  "No, my lord."

  Alex wondered if he were lying. Lily might be in Craven's bed right now. He felt a stab of possessive jealousy. "Then where

  might I expect to find her?"

  "I would expect Miss Lawson to be here for the next few nights, my lord, either in the card rooms or at the hazard table.

  Certainly she'll be in attendance at our masked assembly on Saturday." Worthy lifted his brows and peered at him through his round spectacles. "Shall I give her a message, my lord?"

  "Yes. Tell her to be prepared for the next round." With that ominous statement, Alex bid the factotum good-bye and strode

  out of Craven's, Henry trotting close at his heels.

  * * *

  When Alex arrived at Raiford Park and strode into the mansion, he was immediately aware of the quiet alarm that permeated

  the air.

  Henry was also sensitive to the invisible cloud of gloom. Wonderingly he looked around the silent house. "It feels like someone died!"

  The sounds of subdued sniffling heralded the appearance of Lady Totty. She crept down the grand staircase, her cherubic

  face drawn tight with dismay. She looked at Alex as though she suspected he might rush forward and do her bodily harm.

  "M-my lord," she quavered, and burst into tears. "She's gone! My darling Penny is gone! Don't blame my poor innocent child,

  the fault is mine. All rec-recriminations should be laid solely at my feet! Oh, dear, oh dear ..."

  A comical mixture of dismay and alarm crossed Alex's features. "Lady Totty ..." He searched his pockets for a handkerchief.

  He glanced at Henry, who shrugged helplessly.

  "Should I get her some water?" Henry asked sotto voce.

  "Tea," Totty sobbed. "Strong tea, with a splash of milk. And a touch of sugar. Just a touch, mind you." As Henry scurried

  away, Totty continued her hiccuping soliloquy. "Oh, what am I to do? ... I think I've g-gone a little mad! How shall I begin to explain ..."

  "No explanations are necessary." Alex found a handkerchief and offered it to her. He patted her plump back in a clumsily

  soothing gesture. "I'm aware of the situation—Penelope, Zachary, the elopement, all of it. It's too late to assign blame, Lady

  Totty. Don't distress yourself."

  "By the time I found the note and roused George to follow them they were long gone." Totty blew her nose daintily. "Even

  now he is trying to locate them. Perhaps there is still time..."

  "No." He produced a benign smile. "Penelope was far too good for me. I assure you, Viscount Stamford will prove to be a worthier husband."

  "I don't agree at all," Totty said unhappily. "Oh, Lord Raiford, if only you had been here last night. I fear your absence may

  have encouraged them in this terrible folly." Her round blue eyes, swimming with tears, pleaded for an explanation.

  "I was . . . unavoidably detained," Alex replied, rubbing his head ruefully.

  "This has all been Wilhemina's doing," Totty fretted.

  He looked at her intently. "How so?"

  "If she hadn't come here and put ideas into their heads ..."

  Suddenly Alex felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. "I believe the ideas were already there," he said gently. "If we set

  aside our emotions, Lady Totty, I think we might recognize that Penelope and Viscount Stamford are an ideally suited pair."

  "But Zachary is nothing compared to you!" Totty burst out impatiently, wiping her eyes. "And now . . . now you are no longer

  to be our son-in-law!"

  "Apparently not."

  "Oh, my." Totty sighed dejectedly. "With all my heart I wish ... if only I had a third daughter to offer you!"

  Alex stared at her blankly. Then he began to make an odd choking noise. Afraid he had succumbed to an apoplectic fit, Totty watched in horror as he sank down to the steps, sitting with his head clasped in his hands. His whole frame shook, and he

  breathed in ragged gasps. Gradually she realized he was laughing. Laughing. Her jaw dropped, her mouth forming a lopsided oval. "My lord?"

  "God." Alex nearly toppled over. "A third. No. Two is quite enough. Sweet Jesus. Lily's worth ten if she's worth anything!"

  Totty regarded him with mounting alarm, clearly wondering if the turn of events had unhinged him. "Lord Raiford," she said weakly, "I don't think anyone would blame you for . . . forgetting yourself. However, I believe ... I will take my tea in the

  parlor . . . a-and allow you some privacy." She hurried away, her plump elbows churning like cogwheels.

  "Thank you," Alex managed to say, struggling to control himself. A few deep breaths and he was silent, though an open smile remained on his face. He wondered if he was all right. Oh, yes. There was a feeling of lightness inside him, a rampant surge of elation he couldn't describe. It left him a little unsteady, restless, like a schoolboy on holiday. The feeling demanded action.

  He was rid of Penelope. It was more than just a relief, it was a liberation. He hadn't realized what a burden the engagement

  had been, an oppressive weight bearing down on him more heavily each day. Now it was gone. He was free. And Penelope

  was happy, at this moment probably in the arms of the man she loved. Lily, on the other hand, was completely unaware of

  what she'd started. Alex was filled with anticipation. He wasn't through with Lily—oh, he hadn't even begun with her.

  "Alex?" Henry stood before him, looking at him closely. "They'll bring tea from the kitchen soon."

  "Lady Totty's in the parlor."

  "Alex . . . why are you sitting on the steps? Why do you look so ... happy? And if you weren't here last night, where were you?"

  "As I recall, you have two appointments with potential tutors this afternoon. You could use a bath, Henry, as well as a change

  of clothes." His eyes narrowed in warning. "And I'm not happy. I'm considering what to do with Miss Lawson."

  "The older one?"

  "Naturally the older one."

  "What are you thinking of doing?" Henry asked.

  "You're not old enough to know."

  "Don't be certain of that," Henry said with a wink, and raced up the stairs before Alex could react.

  Alex swore softly and grinned. He shook his head. "Lily Lawson," he murmured. "One thing's certain—you'll be too busy

  with me to spend another night in Craven's bed."

  * * *

  Tonight was going just as last night had— dreadfully. Lily lost with grace and managed to preserve an air of confidence so

  that the men around her wouldn't realize she was drowning right before their eyes. She was dressed in one of the most

  delectable gowns she owned, a garment of black embroidered net laid over a foundation of nude silk, giving the appearance

  that she was covered in little more than sheer black lace.

  Standing at the hazard table with a group of dandies including Lord Tadworth, Lord Banstead, and Foka Berinkov, a handsome Russian diplomat, Lily wore a calm, cheerful expression like a mask. Her face felt like a mask, stiff and lifeless enough to

  peel off like so much paste and paper. Her chances of regaining Nicole were slipping through her fingers. She was hollow

  inside. If someone stabbed her, she wouldn't even bleed. What is happening? she thought with panic. Her gambling had

  never been like this.

  She was aware of Derek's gaze on her as he moved about the room. His disapproval was unspoken, but she was aware of it nonetheless. Had Lily seen anyone else in her position, making such disastrous mistakes, she would have advised him to try

  again some other night. But she didn't have time. There was only now and tomorrow. The thought of five thousand pounds

  nagged at her like so many sharp, tiny spurs. Fitz, the croupier, watched her actions without comment, his eyes not quite

/>   meeting hers. Lily knew she was playing too deep, too fast, taking senseless risks. Repeatedly she tried to catch herself, but

  it was too late. She was on the typical gambler's slide—once started, impossible to stop.

  Recklessly she flung the three dice on the felt-covered table with a brisk sweep of her hand. "Come, let's have a triple!" Over

  and over the cubes rolled, until the numbers were up. One, two, six. Nothing. Her money was almost gone. "Well," she said

  with a shrug, facing Banstead's consoling smile, "I believe I'll play on credit tonight."

  Suddenly Derek was at her side, his cool voice in her ear. "Come 'ave a walk first."

  "I'm playing," she said softly.

  "Not wivout money." He snared her gloved wrist in his hand. Lily excused herself from the hazard table, smiling at the others

  and promising to return soon. Derek guided her forcibly to Worthy's vacant desk, where they could talk with a measure of privacy.

  "You interfering bastard," Lily said through her teeth. She smiled so that it appeared they were having a pleasant conversation. "What do you mean, dragging me away from a game? And don't you dare refuse me credit—I've played here on credit hundreds of times, and I've always won!"