“Oh, Lady Bridget, I do not like this. I still don’t like it at all,” Nettie repeated, wringing her hands.
There was something frustrating in going through life banished by one’s parents, spurned by one’s siblings, and not known by anyone in Society. Yet, to have the one woman who’d cared for you since your birth unable to, all these years later, refer to you with only your name went beyond that frustration.
Lady Bridget.
“I know that, Nettie,” she said softly, surveying the rooms she’d rented in London. Bridget didn’t like any of it. From the scheme her brother demanded she play part in, to the accommodations they’d call home for the next…however long it took her to obtain that book.
She studied the dirt-stained lead windows, the water stains upon the ceiling, and the discolored furnishings, and sighed. In all the times she’d dreamed of leaving the countryside and exploring the city of London, she’d never expected this would be where she and Virgil would reside. Only it wasn’t her. It would just be her son and Nettie. Her heart constricted at the thought of being parted from him.
Tucked away on the outskirts of Piccadilly, in a townhouse that was dark, dank, and damp, there was no other place she wished to be but back in their small, familiar cottage.
“A waste of resources this one is,” the graying, lifelong nursemaid muttered.
“Yes.” But at the end of this deception, there would be coin enough to free her of the manipulation at Archibald’s hands. And there’d be enough money to last her, Virgil, and Nettie well into the future. “It is just for a short while.”
Nettie tightened her mouth. “I don’t understand what manner of man would expect you to take up residence in his household, all to evaluate books.”
A dull blade of guilt twisted inside. For that was the lie she’d given this woman who’d made her entire life—hers and then Virgil’s.
“It’s not natural, I say,” the woman said in hushed tones. “I don’t care if he’s one of those bookish scholars you deal with. They’re wicked ones, too.”
Warmth suffused her breast. The older woman might only ever refer to her as Lady Bridget, but Bridget had been invisible to her parents. Nettie had been far more a mother than had she given Bridget life. It was a bond she appreciated even more since she’d become a parent to Virgil. She wrapped her arms about the other woman’s shoulders and squeezed. “I daresay there’s no scholarly scoundrel with wicked intentions for a partially deaf, scarred widow,” she said pragmatically. She was a woman of logic and reason. As such, she’d never given much worrying or regret to her appearance. It was a thing that could not be changed and certainly not a reason she’d ever want one to notice her.
Nettie swatted at her hand. “Don’t speak ill of yourself.”
Bridget bussed her nursemaid on a wrinkled cheek. “You know I only ever speak the truth. I hardly have any vanity where things such as my looks should ever matter.”
“Humph, the only reason some gent hasn’t absconded with you is because you’ve been hidden away for your whole life.”
Repressing a smile, Bridget gave Nettie’s shoulders another light squeeze. The nursemaid may as well be a proud mama for how she’d always spoken of her. “Well, I promise, I shan’t run off anywhere unless I have you and Virgil with me.”
“Where are we going?”
They both looked up as Virgil skidded into the room.
Both women spoke in unison. “Slow.”
Cheeks flushed red with excitement and his eyes glowing, Virgil wore his joy tangibly like a mark upon his face.
“We are not going anywhere,” Bridget said, walking over. She ruffled the top of his chocolate brown tresses. When his face fell, she added, “You and Nettie, however, will be exploring London.” As much as they could afford. All their resources had gone to rent these rooms for the next two months. She’d not proffered coin for any additional ones. That was the time she’d set for herself to see this through.
“Why can’t you stay?” And with the faint pleading there, Virgil was very much the tiny babe she’d cradled in her arms, and not this little person who wavered between babe and boy.
“I will be busy shut away evaluating old books.”
“And you’ll love it all the while,” he groused, though his lips pulled slightly at the corners. For all his protestations to the contrary, Virgil had an equal love and skill with antiquated texts.
But how well he knew her. And yes, normally she would have traded the slim material possessions to their name to examine some of the most prized first edition books and tomes of Lord Chilton’s collection. From this point forward, she’d never look upon another without seeing Archibald’s evil and her own complicity. Ravaged with guilt at taking part in this scheme and leaving her son behind, she dropped to a knee so she could look him squarely in the eyes. “I’ll return every Sunday,” she vowed. As housekeeper there were many benefits that came with the post. Not only would she acquire thirty pounds each month she served in the baron’s household but she also had the freedom of movement one day each week.
“And we’ll do something wonderful on those days?” he pressed.
Bridget caught him to her, knocking him off-kilter. “Are you daring to suggest it’s not just wonderful being with me?” She tickled him in his sides until peals of laughter rang from his lips.
“S-stop. S-stop,” he pleaded, fighting against her hold.
Tickling him once more for good measure, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Something wonderful,” she hedged. For the truth remained, she could not be caught out in the fashionable ends of London and risk being spied by her employer in Virgil’s company.
At her back, Nettie cleared her throat and pain lanced through her. “’Tis time, Lady Bridget.”
It had been inevitable, that pronouncement. And yet, hearing it somehow cemented the finality of her decision and her departure. Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to stand slowly. She’d not have Virgil see her pain and trepidation in leaving. Her son’s lower lip quivered and the sight of his quiet suffering ravaged her. From behind her, Nettie’s crying filled the small parlor. I’m going to splinter apart right in front of them. “Until Sunday,” she said hoarsely. And before she dissolved into a puddle of tears at his feet, Bridget grabbed her valise and rushed from the room.
Virgil’s soft weeping followed behind her and she quickened her footsteps, fighting the urge to return. If she did so, she’d be useless to him. He’d see her break down and would only find greater misery. With every step, Nettie’s hushed reassurances grew fainter and fainter until they dissolved altogether. Her muslin cloak whipped noisily about her ankles and, shifting her cumbersome valise to her other hand, she rushed down the hall to the foyer.
Lords and ladies had housekeepers and butlers. But even as Bridget’s own family had been in possession of a once plentiful staff, she herself had forever been without that luxury. In time, after she’d been scuttled off to the country with Archibald’s son, she’d opened her own doors and brewed her own teas. She let herself out the front door.
An overcast London morn greeted her; the dreary day a perfect match to her mood. Shoving aside such maudlin sentiments, she scanned the streets of Piccadilly. No good had ever come in wallowing in regrets. She located a hack. Shifting the burden of her valise to her other hand, she started over. “To Lord Chilton’s Mayfair residence. Number Fifteen.”
The young man eyed her a moment and then, jumping down, he drew the door open. He collected her bag. First, he helped Bridget up and then tossed her valise inside after her. It landed with an unceremonious thump at her feet. “Thank—” The silent driver slammed the door shut. “—you,” she muttered under her breath. The carriage lurched forward and she gasped. Grabbing the edge of the seat to keep from flying forward, she held tight.
The torn, faded, velvet curtains whipped wildly. The passing streets of London danced in and out of focus like the kaleidoscope she’d gifted Virgil years earlier. Bridget stared absently out at the foreign streets and used the remaining time to prepare for her introduction to the baron’s household. As the senior member of Lord Chilton’s staff, she’d be permitted freedom of movement within the household which should make her task of finding the Chaucer and—
She pressed her eyes closed. “I’ve become a common thief,” she whispered into the carriage. For the first time, Bridget forced herself to utter those words aloud and own them. She was sacrificing her honor to save Virgil. If she were being truthful with herself at last in this instant, she was saving herself, too. Because she’d witnessed over the years the evil Archibald was capable of. She knew what he did to those who’d thwarted him. And she did not doubt he’d have her committed as he’d vowed if she didn’t do this.
Fueled by that, she set her shoulders and shifted her thoughts to something safer—her upcoming meeting.
My name is Bridget Hamlet.
Given that she’d spent her childhood days in one of her family’s far-flung country estates and then chose self-exile so she might raise Virgil, none either knew or remembered a third Hamilton child.
Bridget silently mouthed all the details she’d worked out for her fictional existence. …I’m a widow. My late husband was a bookseller. My family landed gentry…
Having read every book inside her family’s once well-stocked Yorkshire estate, she’d read enough gothic tales of ladies sneaking inside a powerful nobleman’s household. Every last one included surprise that the employer should ask probing questions and so commenced the stammering. Bridget, however, was too logical to make that mistake.
The carriage rolled to a stop and a peculiar still gripped her. Where were the lurching stomach and the panicky thoughts? But then, mayhap this calm was just further testament that her blood was as evil as that of Archibald and Marianne.
“Here we are, miss,” the driver called, yanking the door open.
Gathering her valise by the worn leather handle, she held on to it with one hand. With the other, she accepted the hackney driver’s offer of help. Bridget reached inside her cloak and withdrew coin for the fare, and the young man grabbed it with quick fingers. He tucked the coin inside his jacket, scrambled back atop his box, and drove off.
Alone, she remained planted on the pavement and directed her attention up the brick finish of the townhouse. The structure and windows facing the streets and lanes marked it one of the first-rate houses, and stood as a sign of Lord Chilton’s wealth. But then, a man in possession of one of the most coveted tomes, no doubt, had fortunes to rival the king’s.
He’ll not miss that one book, then. He’ll survive and thrive even with it gone, whereas I have no hope of existence without it.
That reminder ricocheted around her mind. Even as it propelled her forward and up the steps of Lord Chilton’s residence, guilt stung her throat like vinegar and made it hard to swallow. Bridget set her valise at her feet and knocked once.
When no one rushed to open the door, she shifted back and forth on her feet. Her skin pricked with the feel of stares trained on her. Unbidden, she looked out. Several ladies strolling arm in arm gawked. The same hideous fascination that accompanied any other stranger upon first spying the crescent-shaped mark upon her cheek. Their lips rapidly moved but Bridget had always been rot at gathering a jot of what another person said after they’d moved their lips away from her line of focus.
Drawing her bonnet up higher, she faced the arched entranceway, and frowned. Where in blazes was the butler? Or any household servant, for that matter?
As a girl, her earliest remembrances of her dictatorial father had been a man who’d railed at servants and sacked them if they failed to answer a door in a single rap. What manner of man was the baron who’d serve as her employer? Was he an absentee nobleman, whose servants carried on as they wished because of it? She knocked again.
The panel was drawn open with such alacrity, she gasped. A young servant in dark garments and an easy grin on his lips stared back. He passed his gaze over her, lingering on her valise. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he greeted with the warmth of a lifelong friend who’d been reunited as he motioned her forward. “You’ve arrived. Early. I am Mr. Lodge—” She opened her mouth to return the salutation—but he spoke hurriedly. “That is, I take it you are Mrs. Hamlet?”
Grateful to have that wood panel as a barrier between the gaping passersby and herself, she rushed inside. “I am.”
A dark-clad footman came forward to collect her valise and she turned it over to his hands.
“Mr. Winterly will meet with you and go through your responsibilities. When His Lordship returns, it is Winterly who’ll perform the necessary introductions,” the butler prattled.
Bridget furrowed her brow. Who?
“Forgive me. Mr. Winterly is Lord Chilton’s man-of-affairs. A business partner and,” the servant dropped his voice to a low whisper, and she carefully watched his mouth, “brother.” He stole a secretive glance about. “Given you’ll be responsible for the female staff, I daresay it isn’t gossip, mentioning Mr. Winterly is also a bastard child of the Duke of Ravenscourt like Lord Chilton.”
Her mind spun under the flurry of gossip flying from this man’s lips.
“Shall we?” Not waiting to see if she followed, Mr. Lodge started forward.
Fiddling with her clasp, Bridget hurriedly shed her cloak and dropped it into the hands of the patiently waiting footman, and rushed after the head servant.
“You’ll find His Lordship exceedingly…” His words pulling in and out of focus, she cursed her partial deafness and quickened her steps until she walked alongside the loquacious servant. “…fair, generous, and kind to his staff,” the butler directed that assurance forward.
Fair, generous, and kind. In short, all things her father, brother, mother, and sister hadn’t ever been. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn’t Lord Chilton be spoken of with loathing and disdain by his staff? It wouldn’t erase the wrongs of her actions here, but it would ease some of the guilt.
“…extremely successful and… Ah, here we are,” Mr. Lodge stopped abruptly at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open and motioned her forward.
She hesitated, as an irrational fear needled around her insides that this was all some kind of grand trap and, at any moment, someone would jump forward, finger pointed, and calls for the constable flying from his lips.
“Hmm,” Mr. Lodge said with a frown, as he perused the room. He brightened. “Mr. Winterly should arrive shortly. If you’ll but wait until he returns?”
Bridget turned to offer her thanks but the words died on her lips, finding him already halfway down the hall. She stared bemusedly after him. What a…peculiar man. But then, she had spent so many years with only Nettie and Virgil for company that she’d settled into a largely quiet existence.
Taking a step inside the room, she assessed the office. The gleaming surface of the mahogany furniture and the leather button sofas and winged chairs all bespoke wealth and masculine elegance. It was not, however, the Chippendale furniture that commanded her notice. Motionless, she stood frozen, her gaze trained on the floor-length shelving that wrapped around the sprawling room. For all intents and purposes, it was a library. Yet, the pedestal desk on plinth bases with its leather top, and folios and ledgers gathered there marked it an office.
It was a perfect room for a man who dealt in first editions and had made a fortune on ancient tomes. Her fingers twitched. The need to pull each edition from the shelf and assess its age and history gripped her with a potent force. Surely there would be no harm in examining them? Except, given her intentions for Lord Chilton’s household, it would be an inauspicious beginning to be found poring over any of those tomes. As an inner battle waged between restraint and her own hungering, she cast a look over her shoulder. The hum of silence lingered in her one good ear. In the end, the pull of those books, however, proved too much.
Bridget drifted over to the front of the room, close to Lord Chilton’s desk and stopped. A foot away from the bookcases, she skimmed her gaze over the volumes.
Richard Verstegen: A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence: In Antiquities.
Edward Coke, Sir John Swinton, George Baker Quinta pars relationum Edwardi Coke Equitis aurati, Regij Attornati Generalis / The fifth part of the reports of Sr. Edward Coke Knight, the Kings Attorney Generall.
She mouthed the titles of book after book. Seventeenth century works, they’d each been reprinted numerous times in that century alone. Closing her eyes, Bridget breathed deep the scent of the old works. That scent, beautiful and rich, filled her nose, calming her. And for the first time since she’d agreed to help Archibald, there was something more than fear and regret—there was excitement at working beside books she’d never touch in the whole of her existence.
Magnifying glass in hand, Vail examined Johann Coler’s astrological works he’d acquired from auction.
“Torn pages,” Edward Winterly, Vail’s brother, business partner, and man-of-affairs, stood at his shoulder as he viewed Vail’s morning acquisitions.
“Several of the books,” he conceded, setting aside the glass and book. “But the set can be broken up and will earn considerable coin for the copies that are intact.”
Edward snorted. “I hope yesterday’s purchase from Derby fares in better shape.”
By way of answer, Vail swiped the drawstring velvet bag from the edge and held it over. “Near flawless.” He rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension he’d amassed from being bent over his work.
His brother grinned. Not unlike Vail himself, Edward revealed a tangible excitement in triumphing over members of the peerage. “So the transaction was a success, then.” White gloves already donned, his brother carefully loosened the drawstrings and withdrew the volume in question. He laid it on the satin fabric draped over the table.
“Yes,” he agreed as Edward examined the recent addition to his collection. Vail tightened his mouth as annoyance with Derby’s actions stirred back to life. “But not before Derby tried to maneuver another purchaser.” His brother briefly lifted his attention from that coveted tome. “Wanted to secure funds to compete for the Chaucer.” That first edition work men would fight, kill, or steal for, and for that reason it had been carefully hidden away until it went to auction.
“Ahh,” Edward said understandingly. “No one ever claimed Derby had a brain in his head.”
“A love of books and literature hardly determines how grounded or logical a person is,” Vail agreed.
Edward, engrossed in that copy, devoted all his attentions to Vail’s most recent acquisition. “It lacks the tract De iure Regis ecclesiastico, as found in most copies,” Edward correctly observed.
“Yes.” It was a testament to its rarity. A wave of pride filled him. Born to different mothers but also both bastards of the Duke of Ravenscourt, Vail had discovered Edward four years earlier, mucking out the stables of a pompous lord. It was the last horse shite any one of his kin would shovel. From then on, Vail had resolved to find his siblings where he could and help them all make better lives for themselves. Since he’d joined Vail’s employ, his brother had proven adept at assessing the value, worth, and integrity of coveted books and documents. Whereas Vail didn’t care about the words on those pages past the fortunes they earned him, Edward had an abiding appreciation for the profits and the content in those books.
“Are you ready for me to locate a buyer for it?” He directed that question towards the book. Vail set prices and drove meetings and decisions but, as his man-of-affairs, Edward oversaw the acquisition of purchasers.
Vail shook his head. “I would still have the pages and cover cloth dusted first and—”
A knock sounded at the door. His butler and brother, Gavin Lodge, entered, and looked between Vail and Edward. He cleared his throat. “My lord,” he greeted.
“I’ve already told you, you needn’t call me ‘my lord’,” Vail said gently.
“I can’t call you by your Christian name. You’re my employer,” Gavin groused. “I hardly need the staff believing the only reason I head your staff is because I’m your brother and—”
“I expect a debate on what you might call Vail is hardly the reason you’ve come ’round,” Edward drawled, turning the page of his book.
Their younger sibling cleared his throat. “You’re correct. A Mrs. Hamlet arrived a short while ago. I took the liberty of escorting her to your office.”
Mrs. Hamlet? Vail stared back with befuddlement. “Who is—?”
Edward snapped his head up and cursed. “Your housekeeper.”
What in blazes had happened to Mrs. Kelly? “I have a housekeeper.”
Man-of-affairs and butler exchanged a look. “Had a housekeeper, my lord. Had a housekeeper,” Lodge explained.
“She instructed your maids to set fires in every room.” Edward’s face turned red.
Vail narrowed his eyes. “In every room?”
“She insisted it was unnatural to not have lit hearths, even after I’d explained the reason for it, she did so anyway.” As a rule, regardless of whether it was a freezing winter’s day in London or a hot, humid summer one, no fires were lit, no windows opened in any place where his books were kept.
“I’ve found you a new housekeeper. Mrs.—”
“Hamlet,” Gavin cut in, always eager to be involved in a discussion or exchange, regardless of whether or not it affected him.
“She’s the widow of a late bookshop owner and, given that, I felt her experience marked her ideal for your household.” Edward returned his focus to the book. He proceeded to pass the magnifying glass over the pages of that text, lost as he invariably became in those antique editions.
Gavin made a clearing sound with his throat. “I might point out that the young woman is waiting,” he whispered.
Lingering beside the leather tome, Edward gave Vail a pleading look.
Oh, blast. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket from a nearby cranberry upholstered armchair. He started for the front of the room.
“Thank you,” Edward called after him.
“This is the extent of my dealings with the staff,” he warned, not deigning to look back. It wasn’t that he believed household duties beneath him. Minted a baron after Waterloo, he still didn’t put much value behind a title. He’d been a whore’s son who’d varied between having a full belly and fine shelter or having an empty belly and tattered garments. Ultimately, it had always come down to whether his mother had a protector at any given moment. Furthermore, seeing as the last woman had compromised a fortune’s worth of his collections, he’d be wise to at least oversee this particular task.
“Vail!”
He stopped and glanced back.
Gavin came sprinting down the hall. “I forgot,” he said faintly, breathless. He handed over a note. “This arrived earlier.”
The fragrant hint of jasmine flowers that clung to the scrap was familiar and once beloved. Now, it was nothing more than a reminder of his own foolishness. Accepting the missive, he needlessly scanned the flourishing scrawl. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing his brother. “That will be all.”
With a jaunty wave, Gavin skipped off.
His youngest sibling gone, he unfolded the page and hurriedly read yet another note from Lady Adrina Mast, the Countess of Buchanan, and recent widow. There had been a time when any word she’d written would have had him at her side. He’d been a boy when he gave his heart to her. Now, he felt nothing but a detached indifference to her desperate notes. Stuffing it inside his jacket he resumed the walk to his office.
He entered the room and stopped. The woman who’d been hired for the role of housekeeper was positioned behind his desk and remained wholly engrossed in the titles before her. She stood on tiptoes, surveying the shelves that contained the most recent additions to his collection.
Having dealt with thieves, scoundrels, and thugs who’d fight for and steal prized collections, he’d learned a proper wariness of anyone who came too close to his books. Particularly a servant new to his employ, who’d commandeered a place behind his desk. He entered the room but, engrossed as she was, Mrs. Hamlet continued to work her gaze frantically over the titles. Vail folded his arms at his chest. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he said in hushed, icy tones. No one would ever accuse him of being unfair or cruel to his staff, but neither was he a man who’d tolerate a person entering his household and infringing upon his space.
The auburn-haired woman muttered something to herself and then bent down. At her blatant ignoring of him, he cocked his head. What in blazes?
Mrs. Hamlet froze and reached long, gloved fingers for a volume—
“Mrs. Hamlet,” he barked.
The woman cried out and, knocked off-kilter, she tumbled against the shelving unit.
“Have a care with my—” That frosty warning died on Vail’s lips as she faced him. In possession of auburn curls that shimmered hues of red, Mrs. Hamlet had a delicate, heart-shaped face and impossibly wide, almond-shaped, blue eyes that would have marked her a great beauty in any court—except for the large crescent-shaped birthmark upon her left cheek. The unusual crimson mark spanned half her face, transforming someone who Society would have considered a flawless beauty into someone wholly unique.
At his scrutiny, she brought her shoulders back and glared. “Forgive me, Mr. Winterly,” she said with a surprising strength, wholly devoid of an apology from this woman who’d been caught sneaking about his offices. There was fiery glitter in her pretty, cornflower blue eyes; eyes that mocked him for his scrutiny. Yet, having battled Society’s condemnation for the whole of his life, Vail saw something more behind that brave showing—insecurity.
Then her address registered. Ah, she’d mistaken him for his brother, then. “Lord Chilton,” he offered, correcting her error. He’d neither the time, nor inclination for cases of mistaken identity.
Mrs. Hamlet wheeled her gaze to the doorway and then searched the room.
Vail shot a hand up and waved his fingers. “Me, Mrs. Hamlet. I’m your—”
“Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered.
He started.
The young woman gasped and slapped a palm over her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
A laugh escaped him and he quickly tamped it down. Why, she was refreshing. Wordlessly, he motioned to the pair of seats. She instantly scrambled to claim the nearest Louis XV carved walnut fauteuil à la Reine.
With slow, measured steps he stalked over and took up the leather chair behind his desk. Leaning back in his seat, he clasped his hands over his flat belly. “Tell me, were you interested in what you saw?”
“I hardly had time to assess enough to determine the overall value of your collection,” she said with a perfunctory businesslike manner better suited a potential buyer or seller than a just-hired housekeeper. “However, I did identify one—”
“I was being sarcastic, Mrs. Hamlet,” he said dryly.
The lady studied his mouth as he spoke. A pretty blush stained the lady’s cheeks and turned that stark white crescent red. “Oh.” The young woman briefly dipped her gaze to her lap and he used her distraction as a moment to study her. Slender, with an ample décolletage and generously curved hips now concealed by her repose, she couldn’t be more different than the white-haired matron who’d held the post prior.
“Most employers would turn you out for snooping about a desk.”
Mrs. Hamlet smoothed her palms over the front of her dark blue skirts. An outdated garment that bespoke the status of her wealth and finances. “Given I’ve been hired to oversee your female staff and have a right to the silver, I daresay examining your shelving would hardly merit a call to the constable,” she said with such drollness his lips twitched.
Apparently, he’d been of an erroneous opinion earlier that her bluntness at his entrance had been a product of mistaken identity.
“Fair enough, Mrs. Hamlet,” he said. He’d not point out that those books she’d been studying could fetch more than a small fortune. As the Bastard Baron, wanton women and widows vied for a place in his bed. But beyond that, respectable ladies averted their eyes whenever he, the Bastard Baron, was near. There was something refreshing in Mrs. Hamlet’s frank reply. “Well, which was it then?”
Confusion glimmered in her eyes.
“The single copy among all these volumes.” He gestured about the room. “That called you from your seat and around my desk.”
The lady shook her head. “You are mistaken.” His new housekeeper’s chignon looked one more quick movement away from tumbling free of its pins. “I was never seated.”
“Ah.” He arched an eyebrow. “One of the obedient servants standing until the employer entered?”
“An appreciator of books who made the most of your absence,” she demurred. The unexpectedness of that pulled another laugh from him. Since he’d returned from Waterloo, hailed a war hero, he’d become accustomed to women practiced in their words and praise. His servants averted their gazes and weighed their responses. How much more he preferred this directness.
A little frown marred Mrs. Hamlet’s lips. “I wasn’t jesting.”
“Your honesty is appreciated.” He lifted his head. “I apologize to have kept you waiting.”
“Apologize,” she repeated back slowly.
Mayhap, she was one of the few in London who did not know of his history. She couldn’t know that he wasn’t, nor would ever be one of those snobbish nobles who gave a jot for his rank. “Are you surprised?”
“That you should make apologies for your tardiness?” She nodded. “The nobility as a rule…” Mrs. Hamlet promptly closed her mouth and he had to resist the urge to press for her to complete her thought. “Forgive me,” she said instead. “I expect you’d rather discuss my responsibilities and then return to your business matters.”
Her cultured tones and grasp of the peerage indicated she was, mayhap, from one of those noble families, down on her fortune. “Which was the title?” he asked quietly, bringing them back to his earlier query.
Mrs. Hamlet’s gaze wandered beyond his shoulder. For a long moment, she said nothing. He thought she’d ignore his question. Nor, as she’d accurately pointed out, should it altogether matter. He’d a meeting in a short while with his friend, Huntly, at Brooke’s, and one immediately after with a deep in debt Lord Darbyshire for the first right to assess his collection. So why did he linger with a lively housekeeper? Mayhap, it was the honesty of her.
“Basile’s Petrosinella,” she murmured.
“Ah.” Absently, he opened his middle desk drawer and withdrew one of six immaculate, white, cloth gloves. Standing, he drew them on slowly and wandered over to the shelf. “A classic damsel in distress archetype.” He immediately found that copy and carefully tugged it free, all the while aware of Mrs. Hamlet’s eyes on his every movement. He flipped the brown leather cover open.
“You’ve not read it, then,” she ventured, her words more a statement than anything. Mrs. Hamlet eyed the book in his hands the way a lady might a lover. He snapped it shut.
“On what did you base that opinion, Mrs. Hamlet?”
She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Because if you had, you’d have noted Basile’s telling included a heroine who battled the ogress with her own magic tools. She was a woman who partnered with the prince and fought for her freedom.” His housekeeper lifted an index finger. “It was only in later versions, Schulz’s Rapunzel and de Caumont de La Force’s Persinette, where Petrosinella’s role shifted.”
Vail’s mouth fell open and he stared over the book, bemused at the clever woman opposite him. From but a handful of moments of meeting her and that quite impressive set-down on his incorrect opinion of that work in question, she’d the qualities of one he’d hire for his business and not the running of his household.
“Are you certain you’re here as my housekeeper?”
“I am, my lord.” There was something so very endearing in her literal take on every rhetorical or teasing question he put to her. “It is my understanding I was hired because of my experience in the handling, treatment, and care of books and manuscripts.” As she spoke, Mrs. Hamlet alternated her focus between his face and the copy of Petrosinella.
In a silent test, he held out the book.
His housekeeper hesitated. She darted the tip of her tongue out and trailed it along the seam of her bow-shaped lips. Test forgotten, his mind stalled as he lingered on that slight movement. I am lusting after a servant in my employ. I’m going to hell. There was nothing else for it. Shame sank like a stone in his belly.
“I cannot,” she said, in regret-laden tones that pulled his attention away from her mouth. “Unless you have gloves?” she ventured, hope lighting her eyes.
And for his hungering of moments ago, a different appreciation filled him.
Collecting a pair from within his center drawer, with his spare hand he tossed them over. Mrs. Hamlet quickly shot her hands out and caught them to her chest. She hurriedly pulled them on, the way one who feared a gift would be yanked away at any moment. Then with a reverence to her graceful movements, she accepted the copy and set it down on the surface of his desk.
Joining her, he specifically studied her handling of that first edition text: the delicate turn of the cover and first page. The last housekeeper his brother had hired may have nearly destroyed those precious copies stored inside this household. However, in finding and employing Mrs. Hamlet, he’d quite atoned for that mistake. This woman handled Petrosinella with the skill of a master seller.
She ran her gaze frantically over the vibrantly sketched images contained within the pages. “Quite impressive, are they not?” Himself not anything more than a seller of most ancient texts, he still had an appreciation for the artwork and words expertly joined in the volume. “It’s a recent acquisition.” One that would fetch a hefty sum.
Mrs. Hamlet gave no indication she’d either heard or agreed with his observation.
At last, she straightened and faced him.
“I understand you’ve experience with collecting.” He propped his hip on the edge of the broad, mahogany piece.
The lady stiffened. “My husband,” she said softly. “My late husband,” she amended. “Served as an evaluator of fine texts and volumes.” The long, graceful column of her throat moved. So theirs had been a love match. Only, where Vail had built a fortune, Mr. Hamlet had left his wife without security or safety.
Eager to replace that melancholy in her expressive blue eyes, he spoke. “My collections are vast. They largely exist for re-sale purposes.” Nearly all of them, really. Nothing was too important that couldn’t be sold to deepen his wealth. It was far easier not becoming attached to anyone or anything that could be taken away.
His young housekeeper stared at him with stricken eyes. “How very sad.” She looked back at Basile’s work.
“And yet they bring fortunes that allow for security and stability.” For all his siblings. As such, he expected she’d appreciate the value in that.
“But to sell them all?” Mrs. Hamlet gave her head a pitying shake.
At her overt disapproval, he fought back a frown. The money he acquired allowed him to keep his siblings close and cared for. It was a detail he’d not share with anyone, particularly not a stranger. “With regards to your assignment…” He removed his gloves and tossed them aside. “…you’ll of course be responsible for the female servants. I’ll have you inventory the cellar stores and ascertain which shipments are needed and when. I’ll also have you personally see to the care of my collection rooms.” Surprise lit her eyes. “Matters of bookkeeping will be overseen by my man-of-affairs, Mr. Winterly.” Mrs. Hamlet’s skills were best served elsewhere. He’d speak to Edward about best utilizing her talents. “I would have you speak with the staff about proper treatment of the texts inside this household.”
Removing her own gloves, she placed them down on his desk. “Yes, my lord.”
And just like that, his perfunctory list restored the station divide between them. He frowned, far preferring the camaraderie they’d briefly enjoyed. Nonetheless, he stood and the lady stared expectantly back.
“Given your care of my Collection Rooms is the most important aspect of your assignment, I’d provide you a brief tour.” He motioned Mrs. Hamlet ahead of him.
She eyed him with a hesitancy in her expressive eyes, and then they fell into a like step, with a companionable silence between them. Most women would have scrambled to fill the void, however, there was a confident assurance to his new housekeeper.
They reached the end of the hall and he brought them to a stop. Opening the doorway, he gestured for her to enter. “This room contains solely text predating the fifteenth century.” From the corner of his eye, he detected the lady’s awe-filled appreciation as she devoured the floor-length shelving lining the room. “Given that all the works here predate the printing press they are—”
“In folio form,” she breathed.
He cast a surprised glance in her direction. So she knew they’d be in loose pages, then. “My previous housekeeper thought the room was too drafty and instructed the maids to set a raging fire in the hearth.”
Mrs. Hamlet winced. “Surely not.”
“Surely,” he drawled. His brother may have failed to find an appropriate housekeeper in the last woman to hold the post, but there could be no doubting this one’s skill and knowledge. “Shall we?” Not waiting to see if she followed, he guided her from his most rare Collection Room to the one in the next hall. “In here, you’ll find all works of Western artists. From Shakespeare to his friends Herminge and Condell, you’ll find all the greatest here.”
He stole another peek at his housekeeper in time to detect the disapproving way in which she wrinkled her nose. “Only Western artists?”
Tamping down a grin, he guided her across the hallway to the adjacent room. “The finest of the Oriental literary masters is shelved in here.” Letting them inside, Vail displayed some of his finest books. “The Tale of Genji—”
“Genji Monogatari,” she whispered, touching a hand to her mouth.
“As well as Makura no Soshi,” he finished, supplying that Japanese title. He tamped down his tangible surprise at the depth of her proficiency in text. He wasn’t so snobbish that he’d be startled by a young woman’s mastery of Oriental literature, but neither was he so connected to women who had a grasp of even Western texts. His appreciation grew for the composed Mrs. Hamlet. “Shall we?”
The lady nodded eagerly. “Have you read all these titles?” she asked, as they resumed their tour.
“Many. Not most. My collections are too vast,” he said without inflection. It was a matter of fact, more than anything. “Not as impressive as Lord Dandridge’s, whose floors caved in from all the books he kept.”
A startled laugh spilled from the lady’s lips. Enchanted by the husky beauty of it, he looked over.
“You joke,” she charged, a sparkle in her eyes.
He swallowed hard. Blast if he wasn’t captivated by her wit and her bloody smile. “Indeed, not,” he forced himself to answer. Affixing a grin to his face, he leaned close to her ear. “Hardly as shocking as Lord Templeton who has a problem with rats and shoots them at all hours of the night to keep them from his texts.”
The lady widened her eyes. “Surely you jest now?”
Actually he’d didn’t. Mrs. Hamlet revealed her naiveté where his world was concerned and he far preferred her as just a woman with a deep appreciation for literature. Not wanting to disillusion her with the ugliness he’d witnessed, Vail winked, earning another laugh. The sound of it did funny things to his heart’s rhythm. Unnerved, he hurried through the remainder of the tour, showing his housekeeper the seven rooms where his titles were kept. After they’d finished, the lady fell silent.
“Well?” he urged as they arrived at his office.
She gave her head a wistful shake. “It is a shame someone else will have possession of all these great works.”
And just like that, she’d brought them ’round back to her earlier disapproval. Not knowing why that should matter, just that it did, Vail rang the bell, needing a restoration of his own logic where Mrs. Hamlet was concerned. “Mr. Lodge will show you to your rooms. You may have the day to familiarize yourself with the residence and have Mr. Lodge perform your introductions to the staff.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Vail opened the door before his brother, Gavin, could let himself in. “Vail…” The younger man grumbled. “I…” He swiftly remembered himself and his cheeks colored. “Forgive me, Your Lordship.”
Mrs. Hamlet’s clever gaze took in every aspect of their exchange.
“If you’ll escort Mrs. Hamlet to her rooms?”
“Of course. Of course.” Gavin dashed from the room.
Vail searched for evidence of the same disapproval so many had shown his youngest sibling—or the youngest of the ones he’d located of Ravenscourt. Gavin had once been a legendary street fighter. When he’d located the young man and questioned those in the streets who’d known him, they’d all spoken of a man who, after his fighting days, had never been completely right in the head. Vail’s housekeeper, however, demonstrated none of the scorn so many others had shown the young man.
Gavin scurried back in. “I forgot Mrs. Hamlet,” he said mournfully.
“Quite fine,” Vail assured him, motioning for the newest addition to his household to join the young man.
The young lady smiled. “I would be most appreciative for the escort,” she said with more kindness than most showed Gavin. “I’ll certainly require your skill and understanding of Lord Chilton’s household in order to properly oversee my responsibilities.”
Gavin puffed his chest out like a country rooster. “It would be my honor,” he said offering a sweeping bow.
Mrs. Hamlet glanced back to Vail and sank into a flawless curtsy. “My lord.”
A moment later, Gavin’s prattling as he chatted the housekeeper’s ears off faded.
After she’d left, Mrs. Hamlet’s earlier censure whispered forward. Gathering the one book she’d examined, with a frown he restored it to its proper place on the shelf. His new housekeeper had passed judgment on his business drive. However, Vail had lived the first thirteen years of his existence, devoid of stability. From year to year, as his mother moved among protectors and searched out her next, there had been fleeting moments of comfort. That comfort had been yanked away so many times he’d been marked by it and for it, he’d been indelibly changed. Instilled in him an appreciation to rely on no one, help those he called friend and family, and amass a fortune. It was why his investments stretched from the ruthless men obsessed with books, to steam, millinery, and factory investments.
And anyone who mistook his kindness for weakness was destined to find themselves destroyed.