A Rag-mannered Rogue by Hayley A. Solomon

Author:Hayley A. Solomon
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2012-06-12T21:00:00+00:00

Eleven

It was the second footman’s pleasure to receive Miss Hampstead. Had she not knocked with such imperiousness, he doubted he would have admitted her, for she was far different from the kind of morning caller to which he was accustomed.

As he later apologetically confided in Amesbury, he did indeed note her inadequate gown and unfashionable boots, not to mention the absence of a chaperone. Amesbury rather quellingly announced he should also have noticed that young ladies do not call on gentlemen, and that the hour was not so sufficiently advanced as to permit morning callers.

To which, abashed, the second footman had nothing to say. They all waited, now, in anticipation of a roar from Nicholas’s study, where he was busy with accounts. He had been uncommonly moody lately, a fad that was not lost on his long-suffering staff, who permitted only their affection for him to stop a rash of sudden resignations.

All except the French chef, that is, who’d resigned the day before amid a bitter tirade of bluster and a perfectly incomprehensible dialogue that the rest of the staff preferred untranslated. So what, after all, if he forgot to compliment the lightness of the soufflé, or if he should send back a dish of the finest creme brûlée? But then, of course, there was no accounting for the French.

Now Miss Hampstead, cold in the third best reception chamber, shivered a little and contemplated her fate. A perfectly lovely ormolu clock ticked loudly upon an escritoire of sycamore marquetry, but Tessie was too nervous to admire either. Rather, she watched the hands of the clock, feeling more and more apprehensive and ill at ease. If she could have found her way through the rabbit warren of rooms without being stopped by a servant, she would probably have simply slipped away. But she knew she was being foolish, so she fingered her pistol in her reticule, bit her nails through her satin-fingered gloves, read and reread Lord Cathgar’s hastily scrawled note of hand, and waited.

Finally, finally, the door opened. She expected, wide-eyed with sudden fright, the earl himself. It wasn’t. Rather, it was the butler. Tessie noticed at once his perfectly sumptuous livery, emblazoned with all types of braiding. She swallowed but managed to smile at him quite civilly.

He bowed back, and directed her to follow. Nervously, she patted down her skirts and trailed behind him, past a corridor full of portraits, past a hall decorated in the classical style, with marble statues of Venus and Andromeda. . . past several antechambers and a large breakfast room, hung in azure silks. Then it was up a fluted stairway carved in mahogany, and down yet another corridor, silent, for the soft pile of the carpet cushioned her steps. Here and there she caught a glimpse of a maidservant or a footman, but by and large the house was empty.

Tessie felt severe misgivings, for it felt like she was being drawn into the lion’s den, and for the life of her she felt there was no escape.

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