Seeking Celeste Read online

  Lord Carmichael feigned disappointment. “How very lowering. I felt certain I must always be uppermost in your thoughts! Perhaps I should remind you, however, that the gardens have an eastern aspect.”

  “Oh! That means ...”

  “Exactly! For someone with such an excellent wit and keen knowledge of the terrestrial globe ...”

  Anne laughed. “Very well, sir! I admit I was foolish beyond pardon! But what, if I might inquire, brings you home so soon? I had thought your business in London most pressing.”

  “It is, but there seems to be no end to the debate over the corn bill. Since I have stated my piece most strongly, I thought, in all conscience, I might make a brief visit home.” He neglected to mention that the pleasures of London seemed suddenly, unaccountably, to have palled. Even the prettiest opera dancer of the Palace Royal had failed to tempt. And it had not been for want of trying! Robert almost grinned at her audaciousness. He had pressed a sovereign into her hand, of course, but he had declined the very kind suggestions she had put to him.

  Somehow, the image of his dark-haired, slightly bluestocking, impossibly irresistible and altogether too virtuous employee kept taking the edge off his masculine appetites. On second thought, she had not taken the edge off. Rather, she had roused them to a frenzy, but had quite unwittingly made it impossible for them to be assuaged.

  The ride home to Kingsbury had probably been record breaking, but there! Robert had not had the whit to time it, for his attentions were wandering abysmally astray. He gazed now at the object of his desires. She seemed unaware of the havoc she was wreaking, twining one of his prized yellow primroses. And didn’t she know that tucking them into her bodice wis liable to drive a man crazy? Evidently not, for she seemed wholly absorbed in plucking the petals from them, one by one.

  He resumed his teasing tone, for it was his best defense against other, less acceptable impulses.

  “I am filled with misgiving, Miss Derringer! Usually by the second week of my absence I am delivered of several heavily crossed missives.”

  “From the governesses?”

  “Exactly so! I am generally apprised of every misdemeanor, every truancy, every unsuitable term that has sullied the ears ...”

  “Good heavens! I hope you frank them, for the postage must be perfectly horrendous!”

  “Then, they are as horrible as their reputation?”

  “Oh, quite! They are also darlings of the first order. We do very well, indeed.”

  “Miss Derringer, I could kiss you!”

  “So you always mention!”

  She tried to keep her tone demure and faintly ironic, but her soft flush and bright eyes told another tale.

  Robert’s eyes softened. She was not, then, entirely insusceptible. Whilst the knowledge buoyed him, it also made him more cognizant of his responsibilities. She could not, in her position, afford to have her reputation trifled with. Reluctantly, he revised his intentions, but the militant twinkle in his eye remained, just the same.

  “... And shall no doubt continue to do so! It is your fault, you know, for being so remarkably adorable.”

  Anne scowled, for if she did not, she knew she would disgrace herself by falling quite wantonly into his arms.

  “There. That is much better! Glaring will no doubt exercise a suitably dampening effect upon my ardour.” The earl grinned engagingly. “Come, don’t pull caps with me. We can cry friends, can we not, and stroll down to the river? I have to return tomorrow, so we might as well make the best use of the time.”

  The invitation was tempting, but Anne shook her head. “Desert the children and make off with the brother? My lord, you shock me!” She dropped the primrose and bent for the parasol. “We shall repair indoors, and I shall make them respectable. Then, after a circumspect half hour at least, they shall no doubt tumble down the stairs, undo all the good I have managed to contrive and talk ten to the dozen until you wish yourself back in London.”

  His lordship pushed back his tousled, slightly windswept hair and grimaced. “What an appalling plan! I suppose there is no alternative?” Almost as if he could not help himself, his eyes gleamed provocatively.

  “None at all, you wretched man!”

  “Very well, I shall walk down to the rose garden and nip through the maze so that I can enter my home through the front entrance.”

  Anne eyed him suspiciously, for though his words sounded reasonable, his eyes gave him away. They were alight with laughter.

  She nodded, unable to quite fathom the source of his wicked amusement.

  “Good day, then, my lord.”

  “Anne ...”

  “I apprehend you to mean Miss Derringer.”

  “Good lord, you are stubborn! Miss Derringer, then! If I should happen to get lost in my maze, can I depend upon your good will to find me? It is prodigiously puzzling, you know!”

  Anne was not deceived for a minute. She smiled sweetly, however, and declared that of course he could depend on her to rescue him. She would send Tom in at once to fetch him out.

  The earl acknowledged defeat. Anne felt exultant at her small victory and curtsied saucily as she stepped up the lawns toward the huge, stuccoed building that was Carmichael Crescent. Though she never turned her head once, her impeccably straight back tingled. Lord Edgemere, she knew, was watching most disgracefully.

  Eight

  Ethan Clark knew enough to try the back entrance. If he were to sound the knocker of the great hall, he would have been summarily dismissed from his purpose. Even so, the servants’ entrance was a fairly stately affair, guarded by a dragon of a cook garbed in black worsted with a muslin apron. It was finely tucked in the Swiss style, but Ethan was happily oblivious to this important point.

  When he inquired after Miss Anne Derringer, the cook’s eyes grew wide, and she stepped aside, slightly, to allow the slim man entrance. Perhaps she was taken by the gleam of his topboots, or the elegant starching of his shirt points which, whilst not fashionable, were nonetheless silk and therefore slightly above her touch.

  “Miss Derringer? She be the one what’s come down i’ the world. Used to be a lady, she did. Dined upstairs and all.”

  Ethan feigned polite interest in Miss Derringer’s eating habits. He was rewarded for his patience by an invitation to “step in for a mite,” a proceeding that he gladly undertook, for it was chilly outside and he had neglected to bring his greatcoat.

  A rather pretty housemaid smiled at him as he entered the servants’ hall. The dragon—or Mistress Partridge, as she preferred to be known—instantly dismissed her, exclaiming that she was a pert young thing and if it hadn’t been for Betty’s being laid up with the chilblains, she would never have been so fortunate as to be engaged.

  Mr. Clark felt rather sorry for her, but since the object of his pity seemed accustomed to Mistress Partridge’s outbursts, he did not waste time trying to reason with the dragon. Instead, he ignored the saucy minx’s rather obvious wink and deferred most admirably to cook’s strictures on household economy and the trials of keeping the establishment “as fine as nine pence” with a ramshackle staff such as she had to contend with.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan could discern a fellow he would have placed in just such a category. Brawny, unkempt and decidedly odorous, he occupied the only Windsor armchair in the room, allowing the under butler and two livened manservants the pleasure of the same cushionless, straightback chairs that he was presently enduring. Mistress Partridge rapped out a few orders, poured some fresh tea from the teapot—Ethan could not fault this—and settled herself into the hammock chair that was acknowledged, by the household, to be indisputably her own.

  “Mr. Clark, ‘ere—’e be interested in Miss Anne’s doings. A likely lass she was—nuffin’ beneath ’er, if I may say so, though she be a lady born.”

  “Ha! She ain’t no lady now, if yer take my meanin’!”

  “Watch yer mouf,. Samson! We ’ave company.” The dragon smiled at Mr. Clark most ingratiatingly and pres
sed a slightly scorched macaroon upon him.

  “Do you have her forwarding address? The last I heard she was residing here, with Lady Somerford.”

  “Ha!” came the interpolation from the Windsor chair. “She weren’t no more ‘residin’ than actin’ unpaid housemaid!”

  “Hush, Samson! Miss Derringer was worth three of yer! Very refined, she was, but not above sharin’ some very ’andy ’ouse ’old tips, she weren’t. It was she wot told me of restorin’ with a lick o’ French polish and a camel’s ‘air brush. And blue vitriol pulverized in a cauldron of boilin’ water? That was ’er again.”

  It was the first housemaid’s turn to enter into Anne’s praises. She had entered by the kitchen door, just in time to note the dapper Mr. Clark. She tidied her apron and tripped in merrily.

  “Be that Miss Derringer you be speakin’ of?”

  Mrs. Partridge nodded austerely. Lucy was a good housemaid, even if a trifle forward at times.

  “Oh Miss Derringer was regular wunnerful, she was! I used to suffer most terrible from spots, and she recommended watercress to me. I been eatin’ it every mornin’ for me breakfast, and even Sam—the footman from Lord Inglesides—says he never saw the like! A regular miracle. And she taught me about Canada balsam in the linin’ of ’is ’ats.”

  This last was a mystery to Mr. Clark, who unfortunately knew nothing of the finer intricacies of waterproofing felt headgear. He understood, however, that the housemaid was in raptures over Miss Derringer’s sage advice, even going so far as to pass on a hint regarding the prevention of premature balding. Mr. Clark’s lips twitched, though he remained studiously polite and thanked—Lucy, was it?—with due gravity. Now, he felt, it was time to edge round to the purpose of his visit, since they seemed, sadly, to have digressed.

  “Does anyone know what has become of Miss Derringer?”

  “Last I knew she was ‘eaded for Lady Eversleigh. A regular old tartar she is, and so I told ’er, but Miss Anne, she only shook ’er ’ead and smiled sadly. Reckon as she ’ad no choice. But there, I was never a one to gossip about me betters!”

  Mr. Clark nodded solemnly and agreed that common tattling was reprehensible. Then he leaned forward, engagingly, and asked in a delightfully confidential manner, whether—just between them, of course—Miss Derringer had ever arrived at Lady Eversleigh’s.

  “Best ask Samson that. ‘Ere, Samson! You drove Miss Derringer down to Staines. I remember she gave yer a sovereign for yer trouble. Paid yer in advance, too, which was mighty fine of ’er if I say so meself!”

  The coachman shuffled slightly in his chair.

  “What of it? It is all spent now, and nothin’ to show for it, I might add, but a bloody bad ’ead. Knocked up from blue ruin I was for a week! ”

  “And whose fault was that, Samson Weatherby? You were lucky Lord Somerford was away, else he would have cast you off without a bleedin’ character!”

  “Shut yer mouf, woman!”

  “We ’ave company, Samson!”

  “I don’t give nothin’ for yer namby-pamby company. ’E don’t ‘ave a ’andy bunch of fives, and that is all I consider when there be company!”

  Mr. Ethan Clark, of the refined company of Messrs. Wiley and Clark, allowed this piece of interesting information to formulate in his head. When he unraveled the mystifying utterance, he was given to understand that the coachman Samson had insulted his manhood gravely. Though he was a slender personage, and rather gentle by nature, there were certain constructions upon his character that he simply could not allow. This was one of them.

  He stood up, and politely indicated the courtyard through the open window.

  “Care to test that theory?”

  “Huh?” Samson did not immediately understand, for Ethan’s tenor was mild and ironic rather than belligerent and threatening, the tones to which Samson was more immediately accustomed.

  “ ’e wants a bout of fisticuffs wif you!” Lucy was the first to interpret.

  The dragon was shocked. “Not in the servant’s parlour, ’e don’t!”

  Mr. Clark grinned and bowed, glad to be out of the rickety, hard chair at last. “Of course not, Mistress Partridge! I wouldn’t dream of offending your sensibilities! I am certain, however, that you would wish me to defend my honour?”

  Defend his honour? He sounded like a regular gentleman, he did! Mistress Partridge simpered a little and admitted that she had no objection to a bout of fisticuffs on the cobblestones outside.

  Samson, who was rather slow, only now divined the trim young man’s intention. His eyes gleamed menacingly, for he was always game for a fight, especially when the odds were quite distinctly in his favour.

  “ ’Ow about a bet on it, then? Care to lay out ye lard as fast as ye tongue?” He sneered a little as he eyed his victim. Mr. Clark stood his ground and nodded.

  “Very well, I shall wager a quarter on the outcome.”

  “Well breeched, are yer? It is done!”

  “Samson, yer cannot agree when yer know yer haven’t a farthing, never mind a quarter, to spare!”

  “Shut yer silly gap, Lucy! It is a done deal. I’ll finish the lad off in a second flat.”

  Mr. Clark stepped into the fray. “I’ll see the colour of your blunt or I’ll not play.”

  “Welching, are yer?” Samson glared at him and sneered.

  “Not welching, merely protecting my interests. Can you match my quarter or not?”

  “I’ll match yer ’ead against that wall, I will!”

  “I take it from your delightful response that the wager is off.”

  Samson saw a quarter drifting from his grasp. He was fly enough to pull his punches when he had to.

  “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “Before I mulch yer into a pulp, I’ll match ye wager.”

  “Excellent. You have the coinage, then.”

  “No! I have somethin’ yer want more.”

  “And what may that be?” Mr. Clark sounded bored, as if he was tired of the whole trumped-up argument.

  “Information on that there Derringer woman. Blessed if I’ll call ’er a lady!” Samson’s voice was defiant, but Ethan could not care a hatpin. He had almost given up hope of tracing Miss Derringer, but this bully seemed to be the unexpected chance he had been hoping for. He kept his voice calm, though his excitement would, to the discerning, have been clearly palpable.

  “Not a very equal offer, but I accept nonetheless. Let us step outside, mister coachman, and see who is the better man!”

  Lady Somerford rang the bell, and nothing happened. She rang again, and again there was no response. She made a mental note to inform the butler at once, just as soon as she could find him.

  She would have been astonished to know that there was a good reason for the tardiness of her house staff. All her servants were outside, enjoying the spectacle of a lifetime. A prize mill in the staid, terribly British cobbled courtyard of Somerford Mansions.

  The chandler, the chimney sweep, the knife grinder and the two rather intrigued tradesmen had also seen fit to tarry a little and watch. It was just as well she was seated in the canary yellow drawing room, surrounded by edifying albums of samplers and dried flowers. Had she been positioned at any of her numerous windows, she would undoubtedly have succumbed to a serious fit of the spasms.

  Mrs. Tibbet had outdone herself. The table was overflowing with floral arrangements in vase-shaped trumpets of sparkling crystal. Fern fronds offered soft, verdant backgrounds to brighter-coloured blooms, and the silver salvers gleamed upon the table. They were filled to the brim with interesting delicacies like scalloped veal, larded sweetbreads, fricasseed partridge, raised perigord pies, new potatoes and spinach, a side of turkey and the promise, on the polished oak sideboard, of a final remove of honeycomb, lemon pudding, jam tartlets and a thick, golden custard that was the housekeeper’s quite famous—and most decidedly secret—recipe.

  Miss Derringer was particularly pleased, for she had contrived to keep Kitty’
s burnished copper curls in check with a length of delightful, merry, but nonetheless perfectly respectable ribbon. Tom’s face was no longer grimy, and he had agreed to change into a crisp linen shirt and knee breeches for the occasion. Robert had affected shock and had teased the children mercilessly all through dinner, keeping his eyes very virtuously focused on the flickering candle rather than on the temptations beyond it. He wished, for a moment, that Miss Derringer would leave off her crisp white mobcap or perhaps furnish herself with a slightly less severe wardrobe, but then brought himself up short.

  She had been destined, he remembered, for Lady Eversleigh. That fine lady would have approved of nothing beyond drab colours and dull necklines. Anne, with her radiance and wit, must have truly been at her last stand to countenance such a dreary life for herself. And she had done it without complaint, with stoic calm and an admirable determination that brooked no argument. Lord Carmichael could not help admiring her. He cursed the fact that he had employed her, for that circumstance must naturally cast a reserve between them. He could not simply marry her out of hand, for she would never agree. The stinging slap upon his person was surely testament to that.

  If he could court her, convince her that being penniless was no obstacle to a respectable marriage... . He sighed. He could not. She was too damnably upright to concede. Still, perhaps he could—should—convince her of his sincerity. Robert drew in his breath. The thought was a revelation to him, for though he could not deny the magnetism that drew him to Miss Derringer like a moth to a candle, he had not before formulated it in such concrete terms. Yet, there she was, mildly quoting unmaidenly Latin to Tom and causing a disreputable grin of comprehension to cross his face... oh, he did love her!

  “Learning your Latin proverbs, Tom?”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her blush. No doubt he was not meant to have overhead that particular phrase. Still, she did no more than straighten her back slightly, more rigidly than it was already held, and reach for a serving of fritters. He turned his attention, again, to Thomas.