A Scoundrel By Moonlight

He stared at her, willing her to look at him properly. Even, heaven save him, smile the way she’d smiled at that stupid boy Paul Crane. “See that you follow my instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

His hand tightened. Through her woolen sleeve, he felt her strength. He was used to society ladies. Miss Trim felt real and earthy in a way no woman of his own class ever did.

The silence lengthened. Became awkward. Reminded him of those charged moments the night they’d met. He still woke from dreams with her citrus scent filling his senses and his arms curling around a fantasy Eleanor Trim. In his most forbidden fantasies, he did a lot more than hold her in his arms.

He hadn’t panted after the maids since he was an adolescent. Even then, he’d recognized the essential unfairness of pursuing women who worked for him. How could a woman freely give consent to the man who paid her wages?

Despite Miss Trim’s outward docility, he knew that she’d have no trouble denying him. Blast her.

“May I go, sir?”

He caught a faint edge of mockery. He hated to think that she recognized his lust. He didn’t trust her, he didn’t much like her, but dear Lord above, she set him afire as no woman ever had.

“No.”

This time when her eyes flashed up to his, he was delighted to see trepidation in the coppery depths. So far, they’d played a game where she knew the rules and he didn’t. That disadvantage ended today.

He’d tried ignoring her. Much good that had done. Now he’d try a direct challenge. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

A frown crossed her face. “Her ladyship will wonder where I am.”

“I won’t keep you long,” he said coolly, releasing her with a reluctance he hated to acknowledge and gesturing toward a chair.

He moved behind the desk, hoping that the authoritative position might lend him some desperately needed gravitas. How ludicrous that he’d faced down the greatest men in the land without a qualm, yet this one humble girl, who worked for him, goddamn it, made him as unsure as a boy with his first sweetheart.

Not that he was naïve enough to imagine anything romantic happened here. He had a bad case of blue balls for an unsuitable woman. Given that satisfying his craving was out of the question—not least because if word got out about him tupping his mother’s companion, he’d rusticate in Yorkshire forever—he needed to control himself.

Easier said than done.

Miss Trim had a subtle, enticing beauty. Every time he saw her, he thought her lovelier. Right now, with her chin set and a flush on her slanted cheekbones—perhaps embarrassment, more likely vexation—she was delicious. Like a cranky goddess.

The silence extended. And extended.

“We weren’t doing any harm,” she said eventually, without looking at him.

“Crane has work to do. Too much to waste time flirting with pretty girls.”

Hell, he’d better watch his tongue. At the compliment, the pink in her cheeks deepened delightfully. She had lovely skin, smooth and creamy. It looked as soft as velvet and his fingers curled against the blotter as he beat back the urge to touch her.

“It was only a few minutes, and he was being kind.”

Leath hid a wince at the unspoken criticism that he, in contrast, wasn’t kind. She had a point. Crane hadn’t deserved the reprimand. “My mother doesn’t like novels.”

“She does now. I suggested something more entertaining than those dry-as-dust treatises you send her.”

She was definitely criticizing him, the baggage. “She’s satisfied with my choices.”

At last Miss Trim raised her eyes and looked at him properly. As he expected, there was no fear in her expression. Instead more watchfulness. “That’s what she’d tell you, I’m sure.”

“She likes to keep up with my political career.”

That lush mouth quirked with a faint derision that made him feel like a gauche schoolboy. “Yes.”

An ocean of implication in one short syllable. Because Miss Trim must be aware that just now he had no political career. And if he didn’t keep his nose clean until they invited him back, he’d never have a political career again. Good enough reason, even if he forgot that he was a gentleman, to keep his hands off her, however beguiling she was. And now she’d stopped pretending to be a dutiful domestic with no will beyond her master’s, he found her very beguiling indeed, bugger it.

She was a puzzle. He didn’t like puzzles. But however closely he’d observed her over the last week, he couldn’t work out her scheme. Perhaps she was what she claimed to be, a woman down on her luck.

Perhaps.

“You’re a very unusual housemaid, Miss Trim,” he said and was intrigued that his remark made her uncomfortable. Every instinct shrieked that she hid something.

“Because I suggested that your mother might enjoy a novel?”

“I doubt many of my housemaids could recommend a lady’s reading,” he said neutrally, steepling his fingers and regarding her.

She raised her chin with un-housemaid-like hauteur. She tried to play the self-effacing servant, but she wasn’t much good at it. Something else that made him question her background. Girls went into service young and were trained to become obedient ciphers. There was nothing of the cipher about Miss Trim, and while she wasn’t exactly disobedient, there was an edge to her that indicated she cooperated only so far as she was willing.

“Have you asked them?” she said sweetly, regarding him as unwaveringly as he watched her.

His lips twitched. “No, I haven’t. But I’d still like to know where you developed this extensive knowledge.”

More discomfort. For a woman who lied so often, she was dashed bad at it. “The lady who was my last employer encouraged me to better myself.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So she read you the latest books while you polished the silver?” He didn’t bother to mask his skepticism.

To do her credit, she hardly flinched, although in her lap she gripped the Austen like a lifeline. “Yes, sir.”

“I’m surprised you left this paragon.” He could come right out and accuse her of lying, but where would be the fun in that?

Her lips tightened. “Needs must, sir. Why don’t you believe me?”

He leaned his chin on his joined fingers and regarded her. “Should I?”

“Yes.” She sucked in an annoyed breath and he felt a strange little tug in the vicinity of his heart. The housemaid shell became thinner by the moment. He still didn’t trust her, but he’d lay money that she was closer to her real self now than she’d been since their encounter on his first night home. “My lord, do you find my work unsatisfactory?”

“My mother likes you.” Both of them knew that was no answer.

Her expression softened and he realized that whatever else he doubted, she was genuinely fond of his mother. “I’m most grateful to her ladyship for her kindness. There’s no conspiracy in asking Mr. Crane to help me find something to ease her cares.”

He frowned. “Is her health worse?”

Miss Trim’s gaze became shuttered. “She doesn’t complain.”

So she was loyal to his mother. Perhaps the marchioness’s favor wasn’t completely misplaced. “She wouldn’t.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed and he remembered what had made him mistrust her motives from the first. Whatever lip service she gave to his title, she didn’t like him.

How bizarre.

He muffled a wry laugh. What an arrogant coxcomb he was. He’d never before wondered if his employees liked him. They did a job. He paid them—generously. Most of the time, he hardly thought about them.

He thought about Miss Trim far too often.

“She’s looking better for your return, my lord.”

Ha, another barely hidden accusation of neglect. He ought to put this presumptuous chit in her place and tell her that if anyone wanted him in London fulfilling his father’s dreams, it was the marchioness.

The girl shifted restlessly, behavior unacceptable in a well-trained domestic. It was clear that Miss Trim would dearly love to finish this conversation.

Too bad.

“You will tell me if my mother’s health deteriorates.” More order than request.

Her shoulders went straight as a ruler. She didn’t like being told what to do, yet domestics were accustomed to having every move regulated. Whatever Miss Trim had done before coming to Alloway Chase, he’d lay money that she’d been nobody’s household drudge.

Which begged the question—just why was she here?

“Perhaps you should ask her yourself, sir.”

“I doubt she’d tell me.”

A faint smile lightened her expression. “You’re probably right. But I suspect a man of your cleverness could get an answer.”

“Lately I’ve lost all confidence in my cleverness,” he said with a sigh, thinking how little he’d managed to glean from this interview. Miss Trim’s ability to evade a straight answer put his parliamentary colleagues to shame.

Briefly he thought she might respond to that, but another of those damned evocative silences descended. Into the quiet, the clock outside chimed eleven. He’d kept her too long. Too long for his peace of mind. Too long for her reputation with the other servants.

Just … too long.

He gestured dismissal. “That will be all, Trim.”

After a brief curtsy, she disappeared through the door with a speed that betrayed her eagerness to escape. He stood and stared unseeing through the window at the flat gray disk of the lake. A premonition that he invited danger by singling out this girl weighted his belly.

He wondered about his strange affinity with Miss Trim. He wondered about the hunger she aroused. He’d never felt anything like this before. If he wanted a woman—and he made sure he only wanted women who wouldn’t cause trouble—he made arrangements, scratched the itch, and moved on to more important issues.

He couldn’t dismiss the delectable Miss Trim as unimportant, whatever he tried to tell himself. The thought of tumbling her thundered through him like an earthquake. His head might insist that he’d recover from his inappropriate interest. His ravenous senses told him that he had to have her soon or go mad with it.

That edgy, roundabout conversation just now had been a mistake. He was more intrigued than ever. And more convinced that she concealed secrets.

Even worse, he knew that he wouldn’t leave her alone, whatever the risks.

Nor was his mood improved when he checked the mail piled on the desk to find two more of the sad little letters that had haunted him this last year. The revelations of his uncle’s crimes seemed never to end, but for Leath, the most pathetic results of Neville Fairbrother’s activities were the begging notes from women raising children in poverty and disgrace. Letters addressed to Leath because Lord Neville had assumed his nephew’s identity when he’d seduced these girls.

For most of his life, Leath had done his best to ignore his odious relative, so he had no idea how long the swine had played this particular game. From the timing of the letters, Leath guessed at most a few months before his uncle’s suicide.

Why had Neville Fairbrother stolen his nephew’s name? The answer had died last year with his uncle, but Leath could guess. Some spiteful attempt to destroy his nephew’s reputation. A way of diverting blame from where it belonged. Perhaps even an attempt to impress the women with a marquess’s title.

Whatever his uncle’s motives, the scheme couldn’t have continued indefinitely. While it was clear that the man had threatened his victims to keep their mouths shut, he must have known that his deceit would emerge. Perhaps he thought that family pride would keep Leath complicit, even after the masquerade was exposed.

The women who had written to Leath had all been so desperate that they’d braved his uncle’s wrath to ask for help. His heart ached for these innocents. The scale of the devastation Neville Fairbrother had left behind beggared imagination.

Leath had employed a confidential agent to locate the women and offer aid. Otherwise he’d kept the letters private. Good God, if this got out, especially if people believed Leath rather than his repulsive uncle had fathered the children, all hope of high office would disintegrate.

His confidential agent could help him with something else. Miss Trim had arrived bearing glowing references. Perhaps it was time someone investigated her background.

Chapter 5

From the corridor, Nell watched Leath entering his mother’s rooms. She hadn’t seen his lordship since that nerve-racking interview yesterday when he’d expressed his distrust. His expression this morning portended trouble. She had a premonition that the trouble concerned Lady Leath’s lowborn companion.

Nell slipped into her small office. She set down the ink she’d got from Mr. Crane—who was young and handsome and eager to help, and forgotten the moment she left his company—and crossed to close the door to the marchioness’s sitting room.

“… Miss Trim isn’t suitable.” Leath’s deep voice carried to where she stood.

Nell couldn’t see mother or son, but she guessed that the marchioness was in her accustomed place on the chaise longue and his lordship paced the floor as he did when he was impatient.

“James, we had this argument when you arrived a fortnight ago.” The marchioness’s voice was softer.

“I thought I’d give her the benefit of the doubt before my final decision.”

“Your final decision?” Lady Leath asked sharply.

“Mamma, you know I’m considering your welfare.”

“I know you’ve taken an unreasoning dislike to Miss Trim.”

“She doesn’t deserve your confidence.”

“I grieve to think I raised such a snob. Your father took people on their own merits.”

“Well, my father was clearly a better man in every way.”

Despite everything, Nell felt a twinge of sympathy. Something in his weary tone indicated that he didn’t appreciate the comparison to his brilliant father.

“Nell is from a respectable family. Poverty isn’t a crime.”

“I don’t know anything about her background, and when I ask her, she’s remarkably noncommittal.”

“Only because you bully her. Frightened people always look shifty.”

A contemptuous snort escaped Leath. “She’s not at all frightened of me, Mamma.”

“And is that why you want to dismiss her? Because she doesn’t cower at your merest whisper?”

Brava, your ladyship. The talent for political debate wasn’t confined purely to the male Fairbrothers.

“I want to dismiss her because I don’t trust her.”

“She’s worked as my companion for well over six weeks and the more I see of her, the more I like her.”

“You’re missing Sophie.”

“You’re here now,” the marchioness said with spurious docility. “Still I like Miss Trim. And you forget how long Sophie was in London before she married Harry Thorne.”

“Exactly.”

“James, stop this.” In her mind, Nell saw the marchioness glare at her son. “I mightn’t be able to run from Derby to York, but there’s nothing wrong with my mind.”

“I’m not implying that, Mamma.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m trying to do what’s best. That girl puts herself forward in a most unbecoming manner.”

Dear Lord in heaven, why hadn’t Nell been more careful around Leath? Dismay left a foul taste in her mouth. She’d tried to disappear into the background, but something about his lordship goaded her. Nell swallowed to dislodge what felt like a rock stuck in her throat and leaned forward to hear the rest of the conversation.

“What’s best is that Nell continues to keep me company in her delightful fashion.”

“I insist you dismiss the girl.”

“Why?”

“She’s sly.”

“No, she’s not.”

“And she doesn’t show proper respect.”

“Her manners are excellent. I won’t have you interfering, James.” The marchioness paused and when she resumed, a husky edge indicated that her son had upset her. Of course he had, the insensitive toad. “I’ll pay her from my pin money if you’re unwilling to cover her wages. I’m hardly at your mercy, although you’re acting like I’m a charity case.”

“Mamma,” he protested, “I can’t be easy with that girl in the house.”

“Then that’s your problem.” The husky note persisted. “I can’t be easy if you banish someone who is my friend as much as my employee.”

Nell’s fists closed at her sides, even as her conscience chafed at what her plans meant for the marchioness. Her lifelong loyalty to Dorothy clashed painfully with her newer loyalty to Lady Leath.

“I could arrange for one of Aunt Sylvia’s girls to come.”

The marchioness’s delicate sniff was a feminine version of Leath’s snort of derision. “Not a brain between them. Anyway, it’s cruel to shut a young girl up with only a decrepit old lady for company.”

“You’re not decrepit.”

“I’m too decrepit to put up with those silly chits and their constant chatter.”

“What about Cousin Cynthia?”

Another delicate expression of disdain. “She’s even stupider than Sylvia’s girls. And she’d read me sermons. She’s becoming odiously preachy in her old age. One would think she’d never kissed an undergardener in the maze at Hampton Court.”

“Did she, by God?”

Nell could tell that this glimpse of his staid relative in her salad days had momentarily distracted Leath. Pray God he stayed distracted.

“She was quite the hoyden before she became so holy. Although she wouldn’t thank me for remembering.”

“Speaking of people reading things to you, when did you develop a taste for novels? You’ve never picked up anything frivolous in your life.”

The marchioness laughed. “You can thank Nell for that.”

“I’m sure,” Leath said, and his displeasure oozed down Nell’s backbone like ice.

“Don’t be so stuffy, James. After Sophie married, life became dull until Nell brightened my days. I can’t imagine why you’ve got yourself in a twist about the girl.” She paused. “One might think you’re jealous that I’m so fond of her.”

“A masterstroke, madam. But sadly one that’s gone astray. You won’t get me to retreat in a fit of pique. I don’t like that girl and I want her gone.”

“Well, I do like her and I want her to stay. Will you insist?”

“I’d like to.”

“But you won’t.”

Nell couldn’t be nearly as sure as the marchioness. She braced to hear Leath pronounce the fatal words, but he laughed with a mixture of chagrin and fondness. “You’ve won. Temporarily. But I’m watching your dear Miss Trim.”

“You won’t see anything to her detriment.”

Nell took a moment to appreciate the marchioness’s trust. Trust she didn’t deserve. Her whisper of guilt swelled to a clamor. She might be grateful that her ladyship won this battle, but Leath was right to be wary.

“You’re an obstinate wench.”

“Of course I am, darling. Where do you think your stubbornness comes from?”

He laughed with genuine humor, and began to speak about someone they both knew in London. Very quietly, Nell shut the door.

For the moment, she was safe. But only for the moment. Leath wouldn’t let the matter go. And he’d do his best to discredit her with the marchioness. From now on, she must move carefully. She also needed to resume her search for the diary, no matter the danger.

The marchioness made no mention of her son’s attempt to dismiss Nell, but her manner became if anything, more affectionate. Nell tried to steer clear of Leath, but it was inevitable that they should pass in the corridor or encounter each other when she slipped into the library to select a book for the marchioness.

The lady’s taste for novels grew apace. When Nell had started as a companion, her duties had involved conversation, playing cards and writing letters. Occasionally she assisted with treatments during the marchioness’s bouts of ill health. Now they’d rushed through Pride and Prejudice and had just finished Sense and Sensibility. Apart from the dreary Clarissa, Nell had no idea what to choose next. The Alloway Chase library was crammed with dispiritingly worthy volumes.

Nell enjoyed reading aloud and the activity was undemanding, welcome when she managed so little sleep. The last three nights, she’d devoted fruitless hours to searching the library. Fear goaded her to haste. If the marquess caught her, he’d dismiss her for sure, whatever his mother said.

“Shall we continue with Don Juan this morning, your ladyship?” Nell had started Byron’s poem yesterday and the marchioness was enjoying the change.

“Yes, please, my dear. Such a wicked fellow.”

“Byron or Don Juan?”

The marchioness laughed, although a flat note in her amusement worried Nell. Blast Leath for harrying his mother.

“Both. Help me to sit up, if you please. I’m feeling a little tired.”

Her request didn’t surprise Nell. The fair, delicate features, so different from her son’s saturnine intensity, were drawn. She settled the marchioness more comfortably and opened the morocco-bound volume where she’d left off, with the youthful philanderer seducing the virtuous but hot-blooded Lady Julia.

Settling the parcel he carried more securely, Leath paused on the threshold to observe the two women in the sunny room. Capricious autumn offered up a few perfect days before winter descended.

With a tenderness that he couldn’t mistake, Miss Trim was arranging his mother’s pillows. It was possible, even probable, that the girl was a self-serving schemer, but at this moment when she thought herself unobserved, he couldn’t mistake her affection for his mother.

When he’d tried to have the chit dismissed, he should have expected to fail. He was honest enough to admit that his reasons for wanting to banish Miss Trim extended beyond her influence over his mother. He wanted her out of his house because he wanted her out of his mind. She was far too distracting. Hell, she was far too tempting.

Her veiled hostility didn’t douse his sexual interest. It fired him up. There was something exciting about a woman who didn’t fawn over him and imagine herself either his marchioness or his mistress.

With a turn of her graceful body that made his heart leap, the girl reached for a book. She sat in profile, so he saw the delicate nose and resolute chin so incongruous on a housemaid. His hands itched to tear away the pins torturing her bright hair. He mightn’t trust her, but by God, she was a pleasure to behold.

Whereas his mother didn’t look well. He frowned, hardly hearing Miss Trim begin to read. Then, like his mother, he found himself caught up in the racy tale.

But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation;

A little still she strove, and much repented.

And whispering, “I will ne’er consent”—consented.

On the line’s sting in the tail, Miss Trim noticed Leath in the doorway. While the duchess snickered, the girl’s cinnamon eyes widened. Fleetingly he saw no trace of dislike. He wished to Hades he did. Instead he was astonished to discover that his reluctant attraction wasn’t one-sided.

Like wanton Lady Julia in the poem, Miss Trim’s expression spoke of resistance—but also desire. If they were alone, he’d sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she yielded to what they both wanted.

This was a bloody disaster.

“Go on, Nell. This is so delicious.”

“My lady, Lord Leath is here.”

When his mother glanced toward him, her weary face briefly brightened. “Darling, come and listen. Nell’s reading me a naughty poem.”

“You’re too young for Byron.” Leath deposited his brown paper parcel on a gilt and marble table, then kissed his mother’s cheek.

“Nell is,” his mother said with another smile. “It’s most shocking what that libertine got up to. I remember all the gossip, of course. This adventure must be based on real life.”