It Started with a Scandal Page 4

“Mrs. Fountain,” he said abruptly. “Did you not hear me? Were you perhaps dropped on your head as a child?”

  Ah. What a mercy he was so reprehensible.

  “My apologies, Lord Lavay,” she said calmly enough. “My hearing is perfect. I was making the acquaintance of the staff and giving them instructions, and I came as soon as I was able.”

  “They are a motley lot,” he said grimly. “Skulking about. Clearly incompetent. Sometimes the fires are lit in the morning, sometimes they are not. Sometimes I am brought coffee to drink, sometimes I am not. This room . . . the furniture wears a coat of dust, the hearth, it is dirty . . .” He gestured with a sort of exasperated ferocity that made him look particularly French. “The house is built well enough, but it is not gracious.” He made this sound like a capital crime. “It is not beautiful.”

  The last word was almost wistful. Perhaps more weary than wistful.

  Intriguing.

  She sensed that now was not the time to tell him the staff had been playing five-­card loo and smoking, drinking, and eating his cheese in the kitchen. The appearance of the house would not be improved by the appearance of servants’ heads arrayed on pikes outside the gate.

  But she couldn’t alienate her staff, either, because the house would never get clean.

  “They lack direction,” she said smoothly.

  His head jerked up abruptly, and he studied her. She could have sworn something like amusement flickered across his face.

  “Do they,” he said evenly.

  She merely gazed steadily back at him.

  Had he rung her simply to rail at her? She supposed it was her job to listen, regardless.

  When he didn’t seem inclined to speak again, she decided to be bold.

  “Lord Lavay. I should like some clarification regarding my position, if you would be so kind.”

  “Clarification? Your role is to ensure the house runs flawlessly. I should like it to be comfortable, and by comfortable I mean clean and as luxurious as conceivably possible in this godforsaken corner of England. I expect the staff to wait upon me when I entertain visitors and hold social occasions, which I expect be conducted with grace and style. I do not want to be troubled with the details of how this is accomplished unless absolutely necessary. You will be held accountable for the activities or inactivity of the servants. You will achieve all of this within the budget I provide to you. And you will keep the books.” And here he produced and thrust at her, to her surprise, a sheet of foolscap. “I believe the budget is both reasonable and scrupulously accurate—­I assure you I can assess how much wheat a ship’s crew needs for its voyage down to the grain, no more, no less. In other words, you will perform the usual duties of a housekeeper, Mrs. Fountain, with which I hoped you were familiar when I hired you for a fortnight’s trial.”

  He said all of this with barely restrained patience and a hint of condescension that made her want to kick him. Likely she’d only break her foot and he wouldn’t even wobble in those Hessians.

  Fortunately, while her temper occasionally caused her trouble, it also made her more eloquent.

  And for heaven’s sake, Pennyroyal Green was hardly godforsaken. Church attendance had never been better since the handsome Reverend Sylvaine had taken over the vicarage.

  Even though every muscle in her body had tensed beneath this barrage of arrogance, she managed to keep her voice steady.

  “Thank you. The point of clarification I sought regards the staff. Do my responsibilities include hiring and firing employees at my discretion?”

  This won her an upward brow flick.

  “You will work within the budget I have prepared for you,” he repeated, sounding mystified as to why he should have to repeat it. “And this means if you believe you can meet my qualifications with additional, fewer, or different staff members and do so within the parameters I’ve outlined, then . . . do feel free to wreak havoc upon the ranks.”

  It was almost wit. But he was somewhat white about the mouth, she saw. His ill temper would be the death of him. Perhaps he strode the world in a perpetual state of apoplexy, aghast at its imperfections, hoping to set an example with his own flawlessness, doomed to disappointment.

  Pride goeth before a fall, always. She possessed many fine qualities, but she could also be perverse and obstinate, which even those who had claimed to love her were forced to admit. She would not be defeated by this man.

  She cleared her throat again.

  “Lord Lavay . . . your last home . . .”

  “Was on a ship,” he said impatiently. In other words, the way he said and did everything. “I thought that was clear.”

  “ . . . and . . . and your home before that . . .”

  There was a pause. Long enough to be interesting.

  “France,” he said flatly, at last. He made it sound as if France were a lover who had betrayed him, so he’d been forced to kill her, but he loved her still. “I had homes in Paris, Provence, Versailles. My sister is in Paris presently. My estate . . . my home is in Provence.”

  Had. It was a painful verb. She’d once had a home she’d been welcome in, a job she’d enjoyed, a lover she’d thought she could trust. She sympathized with his use of the past tense.

  She knew all too well what had happened to French aristocrats during the revolution. Likely those properties had been confiscated, stolen, or destroyed. There had been execution after execution. A torrent of death and destruction, with aristocrats fleeing the country if they could.

  Circumstances, he’d said, had an unfortunate way of changing.

  She sensed this man would not welcome her sympathy. Possibly all of the events had rolled right off him anyway, like pillows aimed with trebuchets at a castle wall.

  “I will have them all again,” he said idly.

  She felt it then: a small thrill, as if his certainty, his confidence, his strength, had seeped into her blood. This was the sort of man, she was certain, whose men would follow him anywhere.

  There would be consequences for crossing him. Or disappointing him.

  She’d always thought of herself as strong willed. But the force of his character was a bit like walking into a stiff wind. It took all of her will not to sound timid.

  “I thought perhaps if there was a particular way in which I could make this house more comfortable for you for the duration of your stay—­”

  He held up his hand abruptly. “Surprise me, Mrs. Fountain.” He said this sardonically. “If you succeed where others have failed, I will be surprised.”

  She dug her nails into her palm. She counted to ten, silently and swiftly. She forced herself to take precisely three deep, even breaths before she spoke.

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence, Lord Lavay.”

  She was proud of how benignly, even deferentially, this emerged. Because she’d never meant anything more sarcastically.

  He narrowed his eyes a little. As if he could all too well hear the version in her head. The bloody man was excellent at not blinking. Probably from looking through spyglasses and down the barrels of rifles and the like.

  And then he sighed, a great inflation of his lungs that made his vast shoulders move in a fascinating way beneath his coat.

  “Perhaps this will be a useful way to think of your duties here, Mrs. Fountain—­you are the first mate and I am the captain of this particularly drafty Sussex ship. You will see to the stores and to the morale and health of the crew.”

  She was so startled and enchanted by this analogy that she smiled.

  Something shifted in his expression then. His cool perusal took on a thoughtful, faintly surprised, almost troubled quality. A faint frown formed between his eyes, then he turned slightly away, toward the window.

  She was reminded again of a prisoner in a cell. Which was absurd, since he was master of the house, and surely he could leave at any time. />
  She could have sworn he’d just realized she was a woman, and not necessarily a homely one.

  Her vanity might have preened if the idea hadn’t been so alarming. Perhaps he rationed charm, if he possessed any, and only bestowed it on those he found worthy, and was silently chastising himself for wasting some of his on her.

  But these flashes of whimsy, the dry humor . . . it was a bit like peering at the real man through a thicket of thorns.

  Another odd silence followed.

  “Did you . . . ring for a particular purpose, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  And he said nothing more.

  She flailed inwardly, wondering if she should speak again.

  His voice was a trifle gruff when he spoke, and he turned his head slightly away from her.

  “If you would be so kind as to pick up the quill on the floor next to the desk.”

  Her eyes widened, then fell to the floor.

  A quill pen did indeed lay on the carpet, half under the desk.

  She looked up at him, confused.

  He was still looking away.

  And then she flushed.

  Was this a demonstration of his supremacy? An arbitrary command to perform a menial task in the middle of the day, just because he could? Did he want to peruse the way the muslin of her dress draped her hindquarters when she bent?

  Alas, no enlightenment was forthcoming. He simply waited.

  “Of course, my lord.” Because this was the answer she ought to give every one of his requests.

  Her cheeks hot, she took the two steps toward the desk, and as she bent to kneel—­slowly and gracefully—­she saw what appeared to be the same wrinkled sheet of foolscap she’d seen yesterday, spread out next to another sheet, upon which a few words could only have been scrawled while drunk, so ragged and blotchy were they. She saw also a blob of wax and a seal and ink and sand, an empty brandy decanter, and the little bottle of laudanum, which was still half full.

  She knelt long enough to notice that the carpet here was dusty, too. Good God.

  She stood slowly and placed the quill gently on the desk, as if returning a baby bird to its nest. On the way back up she noticed one of the words on the foolscap: Marie-­Helene.

  She turned to face him again, schooled her face to inscrutability, and folded her hands in front of her.

  “Will that be all, Lord Lavay?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  They regarded each other from across the expanse of (dusty) carpet.

  “Would you like me to refill the brandy decanter?”

  “You will not last long in your position if you need to ask me how to do everything, Mrs. Fountain.”

  Mother of God.

  The tops of her ears were hot from the effort to contain her temper, and no doubt they were radiant little red beacons, thanks to the fact that she had pinned her hair into lying flat against her skull.

  He was watching her curiously. Probably waiting to see if the top of her head would lift right off and steam pour out.

  “The carpets in this room need beating, too,” she said quite neutrally.

  And at that he turned abruptly, plucked up the quill, and twirled it in his fingers.

  She was almost positive he’d turned in order to hide a smile.

  “Are you implying that something else in this room would benefit from a beating, Mrs. Fountain?” he said idly, dragging the letter toward him.

  But when he looked toward her again, quill in hand, his face was quite impassive. The sun shining through the window was giving him a bit of a golden crown. It looked completely appropriate.

  “You are dismissed,” he said, as irritably as if she ought to have known that, too.

  Chapter 4

  SHE HALF DREADED RETURNING to the kitchen, but she moved down a hallway now softly aglow; mirrored sconces with branching arms sported neatly trimmed, lit candles. She would have felt more triumphant if the candlelight hadn’t helpfully illuminated the dusty floors and dingy walls, and if her face hadn’t felt hot and tender with temper, as if she’d literally been flayed. She slowed to a more dignified pace when she realized she was in fact storming away.

  She half hoped the staff hadn’t finished in the kitchen, because a dose of good hard labor was a wonderful way to burn away her mood. She prayed for a clear day tomorrow so she could beat the devil out of a carpet.

  Only two things kept her from loathing him.

  The expression on his face when he’d said “France.”

  And the expression on his face when he’d said “home.”

  She knew full well what it was like to yearn for home and to know it would be denied.

  Those things, like the shadows beneath his eyes, were the way into him.

  She hoped.

  Oh, she hoped.

  It was either that, or he was simply additional punishment for her afternoon of bliss in the arms of a feckless solicitor in training.

  She was even more mortified to realize she’d worn her dark green wool dress this morning not entirely because it was warm. She knew what it did for her complexion and her eyes. As if he’d ever notice such a thing.

  “You will not defeat me, Lavay,” she muttered darkly.

  Muttering so soon, and it was only her first day on the job.

  Jack was her invincibility. She thought of Jack and she gave herself a little shake, as if she’d been shot with quills by Lavay and was now shedding herself of them.

  “Thank you, Mary,” she said warmly as she passed the maid, who was trimming another pair of candles. Mary nodded to her and offered up a tentative smile.

  Elise was heartened. She could charm. She could inspire. She would win over everyone in this bloody house, the dour Lord Lavay included. Perhaps all they needed was appreciation and guidance and affection.

  The farther away from Lavay she got, the more her mood elevated. The scent of lye preceded her before she reached the kitchen, along with a gust of crisp air—­the windows had been partially opened in order to allow things to dry.

  The maids were hunched over, scrubbing diligently, Kitty at the stove, Dolly at the floors, swirling a mop with the same vigor a soldier would use for stuffing gunpowder into a cannon. Both had their sleeves pushed up, and both were putting their all into it, sweating. Both gave every appearance of having done this before, given that the kitchen already looked cleaner. The table had been wiped clean of the remnants of the game of five-­card loo, cheroot ashes, violated Sevre china plate, and cheese rinds included. Sand had been sprinkled over the hearth.

  “Excellent work, ladies,” she said warmly, in her best, encouraging schoolteacher voice.

  Kitty peered over her shoulder but didn’t stop moving. “Thank you, Mrs. Fountain.” She offered a smile.

  Dolly fixed her with those glittery eyes. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Fountain,” she said sweetly. “We aim to satisfy.”

  Perhaps she had been just that inspirational.

  And perhaps Dolly was mocking her.

  Elise sighed.

  As long as they were cleaning.

  And at least she had permission to give Dolly the sack if necessary.

  Taking advantage of the filtered sunlight pouring in through the windows, she sat down at the spotless table and unfolded the budget handed to her by Lavay.

  Apart from the slightly shaky penmanship—­did the man have an issue with drink?—­on figures and lists of items, the budget was virtually a work of art. A thing of beauty. Precise and specific and absolutely rigid.

  So like the man himself.

  Her heart sank again.

  He had thought of everything—­from candles to cheese to coffee, from linseed oil to lye, to eggs and wheat and boot blacking, and, of course, salaries, which were sufficient, just barely.

  She’d not thought to ask
what he might like for dinner, and the notion of approaching him again so soon was daunting. Like going out in the sun again while still sporting a vicious sunburn.

  “Dolly, what does Lord Lavay eat for his evening meal?”

  “Anything put in front of him, Mrs. Fountain.”

  She tried again. “Has he expressed a preference for any particular kind of food? Perhaps . . . cakes? Peas in sauce? Partridge? A ragout of beef? A nice steak? Filet of unicorn?”

  “He expresses himself by swearing, Mrs. Fountain.”

  “Surely he has more refined appetites than that.”

  Dolly paused. “Canna speak to the lordship’s . . . appetites . . . Mrs. Fountain. But he eats what I puts in front of him.”

  Elise looked up at her sharply again, eyes narrowed.

  Dolly’s eyes were just sliding away from her. She had a sly little smile on her face.

  Did Dolly always sound insinuating, or was it deliberate? Perhaps it was a regional accent, that tone? Perhaps everyone from, oh, Dorset, sounded insinuating?

  It had begun to sound like they hurled food into his room and fled, like animal keepers in a menagerie.

  “What does he like to drink or eat in the morning?” she continued, her patience fraying.

  “Coffee,” Kitty said eagerly, happy to be able to supply the answer to at least one question.

  “Does he often receive visitors?”

  “The Earl of Ardmay,” Kitty provided eagerly, on a reverent hush. “And the countess. Miss Violet Redmond!”

  Elise nearly choked.

  Of course he’d receive an Earl. He was a bloody prince of the House of Bourbon. And hadn’t she heard that he’d served as a privateer along with the Earl of Ardmay on a ship?

  “And ladies, too,” Dolly added laconically.

  Ladies, was it?

  “Ladies?” she repeated, hoping for clarification.

  “Aye,” Dolly said.

  Elise didn’t think this part of Sussex teemed with prostitutes, so perhaps Dolly meant it when she said “ladies.” Likely she meant Mrs. Sneath and company, who would descend upon any new residents in Pennyroyal Green, particularly surly lords, radiating goodwill and charity, and bearing preserves.