The problem was, the more he drank, the more amorous he became, and if he got truly foxed he might very well go up and introduce himself, or at least a good hard part of himself, to Miss Jane Pagett.
The barmaid flounced off to the bed, alone. He had a bed in the stable, clean and warm, but he wasn’t going there. He was going to spend the night beneath Jane, more fool he.
The fire burned down, and Jacob didn’t bother to replenish it. He leaned back, propping his long legs on the brass fender, and contemplated the ridiculousness of life.
And it was there Jane found him, just as the clock on the landing struck two.
15
Miranda was in her room for no more than a few minutes when Bridget appeared, looking slightly nervous as she helped her out of her nightclothes. “I’m that sorry I wasn’t here earlier, my lady. Mrs. Humber kept coming up with things to keep me busy, and then she forgot to make you a breakfast tray, and then his lordship stopped me on my way here, so it’s no wonder it took me that long to get here. ” She looked nervous. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? Mrs. Humber says a proper ladies’ maid never speaks unless spoken to, never volunteers information, and she says I’ll be a ladies’ maid when hell freezes over, begging your pardon, my lady. ”
“You’ll be fine,” Miranda said in a soothing voice, ignoring her sudden uneasiness. “What did his lordship want to talk to you about?”
Bridget blushed a fiery red, and Miranda thought, oh merde. She should have known he wouldn’t take her word for things.
“Uh … he wanted to make sure you were comfortable up here, that you had everything you needed…. ”
“Such as?” Bridget was doing up her corset, pulling the laces tight, and Miranda took a deep breath, holding it in.
“He wanted to make certain you had everything you need,” Bridget mumbled again.
“You already said that. Exactly what did he ask you about, Bridget?” Miranda turned and caught Bridget by the arms, forcing her to meet her gaze even though she was fiery red.
“He wanted to make sure I could find rags for your monthlies. I was that embarrassed, my lady! That a gentleman would be asking about such things! But I couldn’t very well not answer, and I told him that you said you’d just finished and wouldn’t be needing anything for at least three weeks, possibly more because you were never certain and he just nodded and said ‘I thought as much’ and I thought I might have said something wrong but it was the master and …”
“Don’t worry about it, Bridget,” Miranda said calmly. She should have known he’d check. She was simply going to have to come up with some new excuse, like Scheherazade putting off her execution. The chair under the door handle might work, at least for one night. He wouldn’t rouse the household by banging the door down.
She would come up with something. She was blessed with an inventive mind, and if she could avoid doing that with Lucien de Malheur she would. At least for as long as possible. If she had to, she could lie there and take it. Recite poetry or poems in her head. Count to one hundred in Latin. Anything to take her mind off what was happening to her body.
In fact, that would be a most excellent way to avoid the deleterious effect of his kisses. Of the way her skin warmed when he put his hands on her. Latin was the perfect antidote to desire.
She was forced to admit the clothes he’d provided were beautiful, and fit perfectly. How long had he been planning this that he had an entire wardrobe made up by her own modiste? It would have taken a while. When, if, she ever got back to London she was going to have to find a new dressmaker. One who didn’t accept orders from strange gentlemen without the lady’s consent.
She wondered what a proper young lady would do in the circumstances. Not that she’d ever been a proper young lady, but she’d tried. An innocent young miss would refuse to wear clothes a gentleman paid for. She should probably insist that Bridget clean her soiled dress and wear that all the time.
But that could present its own set of problems, particularly if she had to wait around in skimpy night rail. In fact, should she have slept naked rather than worn those clothes?
Behaving in a decorous manner was long gone for her, and it would be foolish to ignore the lovely clothes. As long as she was going to be here she may as well be decently dressed.
He must have enjoyed his evil machinations. All the while he’d been gentle and charming and flirtatious he’d been a lying snake. No, a lying Scorpion. She only wished she could stomp him as effectively as the French landlord had stomped his pet.
And yet … the thought of his pet, no matter how strange a creature it was, being killed by a stranger was somehow heartbreaking. She knew little boys. She had many cousins, and boys had an absurd affection for the least cuddly of creatures. It was always possible that Lucien had kept his scorpion with him as a murder weapon, but she doubted it. He’d even named her.
He was a man who refused to show true emotion, empathy, feeling. And yet she knew he’d mourned that bla
sted scorpion.
She was quite hungry, and she ate everything on the tray—fruit and toast and lukewarm eggs. Bridget had no knowledge of a lady’s hair, so she made do with hip-length plaits, then tucking them into a bun at the back of her neck. Wisps of curls had an unfortunate tendency to frame her face, ruining the severe look, but she was determined not to let anyone get in her way.
The first to try would be Mrs. Humber. She found that redoubtable lady in the kitchens of the big house, and she paused, momentarily appalled.
The huge room smelled of rotting meat, moldy cabbage and things she didn’t want to identify. Mrs. Humber was sitting at one end of a long, scarred table, a cup of tea in her hand, next to a smaller woman who looked even less welcoming. She wore a white apron stained with all sorts of nasty things, and Miranda guessed she was the cook.
The two of them looked up at her, and Miranda stood her ground, waiting, her foot tapping softly beneath the hem of her skirt, and finally the two of them rose to their feet, their reluctance both arrogant and insulting. Miranda gave them a polite smile.
“Good morning, Mrs. Humber. I’d like a tour of the house, if you please. I’ll be interested in seeing just how bad the condition of the place is. ”
“I’m very busy this morning,” Mrs. Humber said.