A Mistletoe Masquerade

The tables were padded and covered with baize, so she selected one, laid out the pelisse and began to attack the hem. With all this equipment it was surely going to be the work of minutes.

Lucas strolled through the passageways, Will’s buckskin breeches draped over his arm, receiving a gratifying amount of attention from the resident domestics. Below stairs, as above, status was everything, and he was an earl by association. It amused him that as a servant he’d acquired a higher rank than his own, and he allowed an amiable condescension to creep into his manner. If he were to engage his fellow staff in gossip about their employers, and specifically Miss Maylin, he needed to make a good impression: top lofty enough to demand answers to questions, pleasant enough so as not to cause resentment.

A housemaid with a pert manner and a dimple showed him to the brushing room, then bustled off with a swing of her hips and a backward glance over her shoulder. He was smiling faintly from the encounter as he stepped inside and saw the room was already occupied.

The young woman had her back to him, bent over the garment on a long table and presenting a vision which drove the memory of the housemaid right out of his mind. Slender, curvaceous, and clad in a dull black that served only to focus all attention on her figure, she had not heard him come in.

She was muttering under her breath as she brushed. Lucas suspected her words were curses, for she seemed to be more than a little hot and bothered. Her honey-brown hair had been braided and strained back into an elaborate knot but had begun to come down. Little wisps clung to the damp skin of her neck. He moved closer, his feet silent on the oilskin floorcloth.

‘Damn and blast and botheration …’

It was a very pretty neck. He found himself transfixed by the nape, the tender white skin, the faint sheen of perspiration. What would it be like to bite? Just very, very, gently.

‘Oh, drat!’ She banged down the brush and straightened up so fast that she had to take a balancing step backwards—straight into Lucas. ‘Oh! What on earth do you think you are doing?’

‘Ow!’ The cry of anguish was wrung out of him. She might be slender, but the top of her head banging back into his nose packed a powerful force. Lucas was fond of his nose. In his opinion it was one of his more distinguished features, and having it broken by an irritable dresser would be distressing.

‘Don’t blame me,’ she continued, with no sympathy for his pain. She turned round and glared at him. ‘It is entirely your fault, creeping up on me.’ Her eyes were an intriguing hazel colour, her brows arched, her nose small and straight. Right now she was glowering down it. He lowered his hand, reassured that his own nose was still intact. As she saw his face properly her expression became even more severe. ‘It is you again! I should have known. You libertine.’

Libertine? ‘Are you a dresser?’ But of course she was. He remembered her now—the striking girl with the scowl, surrounded by shabby bags. He had winked at her. Obviously a mistake.

‘Of course I am!’

‘Well, you do not sound like it,’ he retorted frankly, dumping the breeches on another table and reaching for a brush. Her accent was crisp, assured and educated, even if her language when he had entered had been decidedly unladylike.

‘I was raised in a gentleman’s house,’ she informed him, picking up the garment she had been dealing with and giving it a vigorous shake. ‘And educated with the young ladies. Not that it is any business of yours. A dresser is expected to be genteel.’

‘You aren’t genteel.’ Lucas scrubbed at one muddy knee. ‘You sound like a dowager duchess at Almack’s.’

‘It was a very superior household.’ She pushed back the damp hair from her forehead and held a hem up to the lamp. The garment appeared to be a drab pelisse of unfashionable cut. ‘I do not believe this is mud at all. I think it must be glue.’

‘Let me see.’ Lucas reached for the pelisse. He had no clue how to remove stubborn stains from ladies’ garments—instinctively he was attacking Will’s breeches with the same method he’d have used on a muddy horse—but he wanted to keep her there talking. ‘Try this fine one, with the thin stiff bristles.’

‘Thank you.’ She accepted it warily and retreated behind her table, apparently the better to keep an eye on him. ‘Why were you creeping up on me?’

‘I wasn’t,’ he denied, attempting to look innocent. He did not have the face for it, he knew. The dresser simply slanted him a look that spoke volumes for her opinion of men, and of him in particular, and bent over the hem again.

‘Whose dresser are you?’

‘Miss Penelope Maylin’s.’

Lucas dropped the brush and dived under the table to retrieve it and get his face under control. The gods were on his side, obviously—not only had he found his quarry without any effort whatsoever, but she was going to be a delight to extract information from.

Not, of course, that this could go any further than a little light flirtation—if that was what it took to win her confidence. In Lucas’s code of honour servants were as out of bounds as virgin gentlewomen. On the other hand, she could have been a sour-faced abigail or an old dragon.

‘What is your name?’ He straightened up and bent over his work again.

‘Lawrence. Daisy Lawrence.’

Daisy. It did not suit her. This girl was no open-faced meadow flower. She was something altogether more subtle and cultivated. A honey-coloured rose, perhaps: scented, velvety, but with sharp thorns.

‘I am—’

‘I know who you are. You are Lord Danescroft’s valet.’ His surprise must have been evident, for she added, ‘You need not be flattered. Miss Maylin remarked upon the time his lordship arrived. But you may tell me your name.’

‘Lucas.’ She had spirit this one. Will outranked every other guest and his host. That made Lucas the top dog amongst the servants, yet she did not appear to be awed by that fact. ‘You may call me Mr Lucas,’ he added, more to see her reaction than anything.

‘Yes, Mr Lucas,’ she replied meekly, confounding him by finally recognising her place. ‘And thank you for showing me this brush; it has done the job perfectly.’ She folded the garment over her arm and moved towards him and the door beyond. Lucas shifted round his work table as though to find a better angle and blocked her path.

‘A demanding young lady, is she? Your Miss Maylin?’

‘Not at all. She’s as meek as meek—quite a milksop. Not like some I could mention.’ There was suppressed amusement lurking in those hazel eyes, which was odd. He wondered what—or who—she was thinking of. ‘Of course,’ Daisy added thoughtfully, ‘there is her stepmother to contend with.’

‘Indeed?’ Lucas lifted one leg of the breeches and frowned at the knee laces, hoping he looked as though he knew what he was doing. ‘Could I trouble you to pass that small brush at the end, Miss Daisy?’ Partly it was a tactic to keep her there talking, and partly because he enjoyed the sight of her moving about with a grace that must have been instilled along with her lessons with the young ladies. A family by-blow, perhaps? he speculated. ‘Is her stepmother difficult?’

‘Terrible. Ghastly, vulgar creature,’ Daisy confided with some relish. ‘Unfortunately Miss Maylin is devoted to her. It is the greatest good fortune, in my opinion, that she did not accompany us here—although poor Miss Maylin is almost prostrated with nerves without her support. She is hopeless in Society. I said to her, Your husband is not going to like it if you insist on your stepmama living with you when you are wed. That upset her, believe me.’

‘Husband? She is betrothed, then?’

‘Oh, no. But it won’t be long if Lady M has anything to do with it. Of course she’s hoping for a rich man—they need it, that’s for certain.’

‘Really?’ Lucas kept his eyes on his task, feigning only casual interest.

‘Well, yes, what with the family tendency to—’ She broke off. ‘Listen to me gossiping! That will never do. What must you think of me, Mr Lucas?’

Schooling his features to hide his impatience with her sudden attack of discretion, Lucas put the brush down and turned with deliberation to face Daisy. She was looking somewhat chastened, an expression that did not seem to fit her confident heart-shaped face.

‘Think of you? Why, that you are as charming as you look, Miss Daisy.’ He leant forward. Her eyes widened but she stood her ground. ‘And that you have the most kissable mouth I have yet seen in this house.’

‘Oh!’ She planted one hand firmly in the middle of his chest and pushed. ‘Out of my way, Mr Lucas—you are an arrant flirt and I am well served for lingering to gossip.’

Amused, and too skilled to try and detain her and risk frightening her away from future conversation, Lucas stepped back. ‘Miss Daisy. I look forward to seeing you this evening in the Steward’s Room.’

‘The—? Of course—dinner.’ She swept past him, delightful nose in the air. ‘But at opposite ends of the table, Mr Lucas, I am glad to say.’

Rowan shut the door behind her and leant against it for a moment to catch her breath. For a moment she had thought he was about to steal a kiss. What her father would say if he knew his only child was not only masquerading as an upper servant but was being amorously pursued by a valet, she shuddered to think. In fact she was shuddering now—or rather shivering. And it was chastening to realise that it was from excitement, not revulsion or maidenly horror.

Getting a grip on herself, she set off for the stairs and found them after only three false turns. At least running up their twisting steepness was an excuse for pink cheeks. One heard about reckless young women who threw their virtue away on handsome footmen. They always appeared to end up pregnant and in disgrace, but perhaps those were only the ones she had heard about, and the stately homes of England were rife with liaisons between upstairs and downstairs.

Well, she was not going to throw her hat over the windmill for anyone less than the man she was going to marry, so tall, dark, blue-eyed rakish valets were not going to tempt her in the slightest. Then what, pray, her inconvenient inner voice enquired tartly, are you doing, getting all of a do-dad over one wink and an almost-kiss?

Maidenly modesty, she assured her inner voice sanctimoniously, and was giggling as she let herself into Penny’s bedchamber.

‘You’ve been ages,’ Penny remarked. She was sitting up in bed and looked considerably better. ‘Have you been exploring?’

‘I’ve been getting a backache trying to remove the mud from this.’ Rowan hung the pelisse in the clothes press. ‘And flirting with Lord Danescroft’s valet.’

‘What?’ Penny hopped out of bed, gaping. ‘Truly? The one who winked at you?’

‘Well, not the one who was his wife’s lover, that’s for sure. I don’t know what it is about that man—he appears to employ valets of a decidedly amorous disposition. This one—call me Mr Lucas, if you please—crept up behind me in the brushing room and then almost kissed me, after telling me I looked delightful.’

She perched on the end of the bed and Penny sank down beside her, wide eyed. ‘But I got in some telling remarks. I told him that you were devoted to your stepmother, even though she was quite frightful, and pined because she was not here and would probably expect your future husband to allow her to live with you.’

‘Brilliant,’ Penny said admiringly. ‘That should put him off.’

‘And then I implied that you were on the catch for a rich husband because the family was much in need of funds, hinted at some scandalous reason why that was so and had a sudden attack of discretion. I stopped at the most intriguing point, trust me. He must think you a family of hardened gamesters at the very least.’

‘Wonderful. Much more of that and I will not need to worry about convincing Papa of Lord Danescroft’s unsuitability—he will not consider proposing to me for a minute.’

‘I know.’ Rowan permitted herself a moment’s smugness, then caught sight of the clock. ‘Goodness! Look at the time—and we both have to change.’

‘Apparently she is devoted to her stepmother.’ Lucas stood back and eyed Will critically, clothes brush in hand. ‘What the devil have you done to that neckcloth?’

‘It’s a Waterfall.’

‘It’s a mess. Here, let me. Sit down again.’ A minute passed, the silence broken only by the Earl protesting faintly that he was being strangled and Lucas’s crushing remarks on the quality of the starch in the muslin. ‘There.’

‘Hmm. I’m not convinced, but I refuse to go through that again. Really? Devoted, you say?’

‘By the sound of it she is as much a trial at home as she is in Society. Apparently Miss Penelope will want her to live with her once she is married.’

‘Over my dead body. You’ve been very busy.’

‘A pleasure, I assure you. Miss Maylin has a most superior Abigail, with a straight little nose, big hazel eyes and a crushing way with flirtation. I am, let me tell you, a libertine.’

The warmth that he had discerned in Will’s eyes vanished. ‘It is no doubt the general assumption that I employ such men.’

There was not a great deal to be said to that. Lucas lifted a waistcoat and held it out for Will to shrug into. ‘She also let slip that her mistress is on the hunt for a wealthy match.’

‘We knew that.’ Will stuck a cravat pin into the folds of his neckcloth and pushed his watch into the fob pocket.

‘But not why the family is in such straits—unless your grandmother dropped a hint.’

‘Indeed not.’ His friend paused, hairbrush in hand. ‘I assumed they were simply a minor branch of the family without inherited wealth. What’s the story?’

‘I must confess I do not know. The charming Miss Daisy was seized with a fit of discretion at that point.’

‘Daisy, eh?’ Will had warmed up again. Lucas kicked himself mentally: the wounds must be raw indeed for him to take up every hint that might refer to his late wife. ‘Seducing servants, are you?’

‘Of course not.’ Lucas shook out the midnight-blue swallowtail coat and helped Will ease into it. ‘Merely getting on terms with our best source of information.’ He regarded the Earl, elegant and immaculate. ‘You’ll do. In fact, you’ll probably do only too well. I don’t suppose you’d consider developing a revolting personal habit to put her off?’

‘More revolting than murdering my wife?’ Will lifted one eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid my imagination won’t stretch that far.’

Lucas stood looking at the back of the door after it closed behind his friend. The bitter words seemed to hang in the air. He gave vent to his feelings by kicking a discarded shirt across the floor, then stalked off to his own room to change. Upper servants were expected to dress for dinner and good manners would not allow him to be late—even if the lady he was to escort into dinner was the housekeeper and not a duchess. And he needed to take special care this evening: there was a certain prickly dresser to impress.

CHAPTER THREE

ROWAN entered the Steward’s Room feeling much as she had on her first visit to Almack’s—convinced that she would break all kinds of rules, most of them incomprehensible. On the other hand she was now twenty-four, and she had entertained the Duke of Wellington and virtually every notable at the Congress as her father’s hostess. She ought to be able to manage Pug’s Parlour, as irreverent lower servants everywhere referred to the rooms of the upper staff.

The evening dress she was wearing had once been hers, and had been passed to Alice, her own dresser, the year before. Now she had borrowed it back, noting that the heavy lace at neck and hem had gone—doubtless sold on as one of the dresser’s perks—and had been replaced with a more modest braid. Alice had maintained the heavy moss-green silk in good order and had let in long sleeves in a fine gauze.

Worn with plain kid slippers and a simple pearl cross at her throat, the gown presented the picture of modestly respectable elegance, suitable for her position. Dressing to be inconspicuous was a new skill—one she had never had to master before, Rowan realised with an inner grin.

The Steward’s Room was crowded, the guests’ valets and dressers chattering away, all apparently known to each other. A tall man in a black swallowtail coat approached her. ‘Good evening. I am Mr Evesham, Steward here. You will be Miss Maylin’s dresser. Miss …?’

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