by Anne Stuart
He finished the piece of cake, then reached for the apple tart with hard sauce. He was naturally lean, but a few months of Sophie’s fell hand and he’d become as roly-poly as a judge. He laughed at the thought, finished most of the tart, and set the plate back down on the tray, half-tempted to have the footman order her back once more. Her behavior amused him, though he supposed the letter Dickens had brought him accounted for some of his sanguine mood. There was a good chance Rufus might have survived.
He should have viewed that possibility with unadulterated joy. But there was nothing simple about his relationship with Rufus, nothing straightforward about his younger brother, and never had been.
Rufus had always been the charming one, the naughty one, the occasionally devious one, and Alexander had learned long ago not to underestimate him. Indeed, he’d worried about him for the last few years, when he’d disappear for months at a time and return in the middle of the night, with odd injuries like burns on his hands or a broken leg.
And the money had been a concern as well. Soon after Alexander had unexpectedly come into the title and the debts that came with it, Rufus had somehow managed to unearth a huge amount of money. He’d been evasive, insisting it was simply part of the inheritance that had gotten overlooked, and in the end Alexander had taken the money and made a great deal more, enough that he could easily return the original money to Rufus and not even notice its loss.
If Rufus was truly dead then Alexander wouldn’t be able to return the money, nor would he ever have an answer as to where it had come from. Much as he hated to distrust his brother, there was no avoiding the fact that Rufus’s sense of honor was extremely elastic. It was entirely possible he’d stolen that money, and Alexander was duty-bound to return it, if he only knew the source.
If Rufus was still alive then he would get those answers, but that brought with it an even worse problem. What do you do when you know someone is a criminal? Do you turn him in, or let him continue with his activities? And if he didn’t stop Rufus, someone else might, someone who might use lethal force.
Those moral questions had been unimportant while he believed Rufus was dead. If his brother really had managed to escape death once more, then there would have to be an unpleasant reckoning before long, one he dreaded.
He’d been tempted not to say anything to Adelia about the possibility of Rufus’s survival, but in the end even his contempt for her couldn’t make him cruel. If Adelia loved anyone above herself it was her son, and he couldn’t keep the possibility of hope away from her, whether she deserved it or not.
Time would tell. For now, he was going to do the one thing that could cool his body down and enable him to sleep. Pushing off from the sofa, he went in search of the night air and the clear, cool water.
CHAPTER TEN
SOPHIE HADN’T SLEPT WELL. Every time she drifted off she would reawaken with a start, feeling his mouth on hers, his hands holding her. At one point she even got up and lit the lamps again, peering through the shadows in her rooms. He wasn’t there, of course. She wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or a disappointment.
Breakfast had been a simple enough matter, with the viscount and his stepmother taking trays in their rooms. Sophie could only be glad her employer hadn’t decided she should be the one to serve him. The thought of the man still in bed, lying amidst rumpled white sheets, was disturbing. Would he wear a decent nightshirt and cap to bed? She knew he wouldn’t. The man would sleep in nothing but all that hard, bronzed skin, and he would probably enjoy trying to embarrass her if she entered his rooms.
Once the trays had gone, the rest of the household sat down for their morning meal, and by the time it was finished and the staff had been dispersed to their duties, Sophie was considering slipping off to her room when Dickens returned to the kitchens, a grim look on his face as he approached her.
Sophie felt her stomach knot in distress. Had Alexander Griffiths found out who she was? She’d hoped for an easy day of it, given that she’d already come up with a week’s worth of menus and Prunella had started in on the bread, but she simply squared her shoulders and waited for Dickens to make his pronouncement.
“You’re wanted upstairs, miss,” he said in a gloomy voice.
“I expected as much.” The viscount presumably didn’t like being told no. Despite the assurances of the rest of the staff that her employer didn’t poach among the serving class, Alexander Griffiths had proved them wrong. Not only had she refused his advances, she’d all but shoved him onto the floor and run.
Well, to be utterly truthful, refusing hadn’t truly been the case. She was putting up a good fight against the seductive gleam in his eyes, the clever touch of his hands, the wicked demands of his mouth, but sooner or later she was going to lose unless she came up with better defenses. Oh, she could fight off the Dark Viscount—wife-murderer, possible embezzler and killer of her own father—with no little effort. It was fighting off her own untoward desires that were leading her down a path to her own destruction.
She had no dowry. Her name, her real name, was tarnished. Her sisters had scattered. All she had was her face and her innocence, and that wasn’t going to last long at this rate. If he started in at this hour in the morning she would probably need to hit him over the head with a skillet.
“What does he want?” she asked, not bothering to hide her grumpy mood.
“Not his lordship, Miss Sophie. In fact, he’s gone out for the day and left no word as to when he might return. If he’s gone down to London we won’t see him for days, I should think. No, it’s Mrs. Griffiths who wants to see you.”
Sophie didn’t even have time to feel relief over the viscount’s disappearance before the thought of his stepmother made her heart sink. Here was a different danger entirely, and she wasn’t looking forward to facing the woman.
“She’ll want to see the menus, and she’ll probably ask you a dozen questions you won’t want to answer,” Dickens continued morosely. “I’ll do my best to remain with you in case she proves difficult.”
“I thought you told me the viscount approves the menus,” Sophie said.
“The moment he leaves, Mrs. Griffiths tries to take charge. She’s gotten rid of any number of servants during the few months they’ve been in residence, particularly anyone for whom his lordship shows a . . . a partiality.”
The very last thing she was going to do was question the viscount’s partiality for her. “So she could dismiss me?”
“No, miss. I don’t think even she would dare.”
She almost asked him why not, but wisdom stopped her. “Just give me a moment to tidy up,” she said, untying her apron and heading toward her room. There was always the possibility that she and Mrs. Griffiths could form some kind of alliance against the viscount. Apparently they despised each other, and the old woman would probably be more than happy to help find proof that would discredit the man.
Sophie had no intention of helping his stepmother. It didn’t matter if the man was guilty of every last thing she suspected him of—she wasn’t going to side with that harridan. If he truly had anything to do with her father’s death, then she would find it out on her own.
Sophie followed Dickens up the winding stairs to the front hall, then followed him up narrow servants’ stairs, taking time to peek in at the various floors before moving on. While the ground level of Renwick had been redecorated, the higher floors were still the same, though Sophie imagined it wouldn’t be long before those were torn apart as well. It was hard to believe her father had been dead for less than three months, that just last winter she’d been the spoiled and pampered Miss Sophie Russell, sought after and adored. Mrs. Griffiths had taken over the apartments on the third floor that had once belonged to her father, which struck Sophie as decidedly odd. Those were the best rooms in the house—why wasn’t the viscount living in them? Exactly which rooms had he claimed? The three sisters had slept in rooms on the second floor, and along with those rooms there were three guest chambers. The
third floor held guest rooms as well, but none of them had a dressing room and water closet as her father’s had.
She followed Dickens up the last flight of stairs, casting surreptitious glances around her. The lack of a housekeeper showed here—while the hallways were clean, there was a certain lack of polish and refinement that her older sister, Bryony, would never have tolerated. But then, the maids who worked at Renwick had known the place well, unlike the new staff.
It gave Sophie an odd feeling to be standing outside her father’s door, waiting, as Dickens gave a muted scratch against the thick walnut, and Sophie’s mouth went dry in sudden alarm. It’s not Alexander, she told herself, and then realized with shock that she’d thought of him in terms of his Christian name. He was the viscount, the Dark Viscount, the Damned Viscount, damned as in doomed, and she needed to remember that, even if he was frighteningly adept at making her forget.
“Come in, Dickens.”
If the woman had looked intimidating from her place of honor at the bottom of the table, she looked even more unnerving in Sophie’s father’s old rooms. These had been redecorated as well, though the job had clearly been a hasty, slapdash affair. The walls were now an unfortunate shade of salmon, unfortunate because it made Mrs. Griffiths’s high color look almost apoplectic. Her hair was arranged in such a complicated array of dubiously blond curls that Sophie suspected it might be a wig, and her black mourning dress was bedecked with enough jet and bead to weigh down a clipper ship, a notion accentuated by her massive bosom. A woman sat to one side, a worried expression on her face, and Sophie recognized the proverbial lady’s companion. Though the companion looked more well bred than the lady.
Mrs. Griffiths said nothing as she ran her dark, beady eyes down Sophie’s body, and her pursed mouth tightened. Sophie felt Dickens give her a surreptitious push, and she entered the room, deciding to give the woman her very best curtsey.
Those small eyes darkened further, and belatedly Sophie realized her mistake. She wasn’t familiar with the polite bob of a maidservant—she’d just given Mrs. Griffiths her elaborate, presented-at-court curtsey, only a shade less deferent than the curtain call of an opera dancer, and it must have looked overdone. “Mrs. Griffiths?” she asked in a polite little voice. This was not going to go well.
“Madame Camille,” Mrs. Griffiths said in a stiff tone, and it took Sophie a moment to remember that that was her purported name.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I trust you’ve brought at least a month’s worth of menus with you for my perusal?”
No mistress of the house would ask for a month of menus—too much depended on what might come in season, and whether there were last-minute visitors. The woman next to Mrs. Griffiths put out a hand.
“Adelia,” she said in a hushed voice, “a month is simply not done. Better you ask for a week at most.”
Mrs. Griffiths’s high color darkened, and Sophie immediately guessed what was going on. The companion, whose clothes were more tasteful and whose hair was more subdued, was clearly more conversant with polite society, and she was both a companion and a social tutor. And Mrs. Griffiths didn’t like it one tiny bit.
“Cousin Mary, I believe I am the lady of the house, and if I asked for a month of menus then I expect my expensive, highly recommended cook to provide them. I do not see any papers in your hands, Madame Camille.”
Sophie could feel Dickens about to speak, but she quickly stepped forward. She wasn’t going to let him fall on a sword for her like some Roman general. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Griffiths,” she said in her most humble voice, “but I already presented the menus to his lordship. You probably aren’t aware that he’s gone out, and for some reason he’s locked his study.” It was a shot in the dark, but a lucky one. Alexander didn’t trust his stepmother—it only made sense that he’d utilize locked doors to keep her out.
“Has he gone out?” Mrs. Griffiths said airily. “I hadn’t realized. Dickens, you must have a key for the study.”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t,” Dickens said regretfully. “His lordship took the extras from me and the housekeeper’s chatelaine. Said he didn’t want anyone rummaging through his papers.”
Mrs. Griffiths’s teeth were large and rather terrifying. “Surely he didn’t mean his dear stepmama in that injunction.”
“Surely not, ma’am. But the fact remains that the doors are locked and I have no way of retrieving the menus.”
The mean little eyes, like raisins in the midst of a suet pudding, swung back to Sophie. “And you didn’t think to make a copy?” she demanded. “Most irresponsible of you.”
A month’s worth of menus consisting of innumerable courses would have taken more time than she’d been in residence, and a copy would have been impossible, as the old woman well knew.
Except that she wasn’t an old woman. She had to be somewhere in her fifties, an age when one could certainly look well preserved if one tried. She was a formidable woman, tall, sturdily built, but her taste was somehow off. The black dress showed far too much cleavage, her maquillage was overdone, and she wore far too many rings on her plump fingers.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Griffiths,” Sophie said in her most humble voice, no matter how much it galled her. “I’m still learning my way around here.”
“It seems to me that you’re having trouble knowing your place,” she said. “If you think my stepson is a likely candidate for protector then you’re wrong. He’s a pinchpenny miser, with only a cursory interest in females. In truth, I believe he prefers males, but of course that is something we don’t discuss.”
Sophie blinked. It took all her concentration to keep her face entirely blank at the woman’s absurd statement. “Indeed, ma’am,” she murmured. She’d never seen a man less likely to prefer his own kind, though it would certainly make her life easier if he did. But why would Mrs. Griffiths lie about such a thing?
Clearly the woman had been looking for a more dramatic reaction. “Yes, well, I’m not convinced that you will suit us here. Your reputation led me to believe we’d be fed something quite extraordinary, but so far it’s only been . . . adequate.”
Well, that was undoubtedly a lie. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she murmured. “Perhaps you could provide me with some direction.” Women like Mrs. Griffiths liked to control things—Sophie could see it in her hard little eyes. Resistance would be a waste of time.
“I shouldn’t have to provide you direction,” the woman snapped. “You were hired for that purpose. If you cannot fulfill your position then you’d be better off departing before you make a shambles of things. In fact, my stepson was most displeased with you, and let me warn you that he is a difficult, no, a dangerous man when he’s angry. You would be wise to leave here before he returns, or I can’t answer for your safety. He has a history of brutality against women, you know.”
Sophie blinked again. She and her sisters had often played cards, betting their pin money, and she’d always won, due to her enigmatic expression. Dealing with this woman’s outrageousness was harder than she would have thought.
“I never listen to rumors, madame,” she murmured politely. She could try calling her “my lady,” but instead of stoking her vanity, it might anger the woman. “And his lordship has yet to express any displeasure with the meals I’ve prepared. I would hardly think he’d be so unfair as to dismiss me without giving me a full chance.”
Impossibly, the old woman’s eyes narrowed further. “I cannot speak for your safety if you insist on staying.”
Sophie said nothing. It was clear that the woman didn’t have the power to dismiss her, but she was doing everything she could, short of saying so. Mrs. Griffiths fixed her with a dark look. “You’d best be very careful, Madame Camille. Even if my stepson is generally uninterested in females, he will occasionally lapse, and I tell you, in great confidence, that there have been severe injuries with the women he’s . . . he’s been intimate with.”
At this the companion made a noise. It wa
s a small, strangled sound of protest, as if this was too far even for her.
Sophie nodded politely. “Then I will ensure that his lordship keeps his hands off the kitchen staff. Good servants are so hard to find.”
Mrs. Griffiths automatically reached for another biscuit, then glared at the empty plate as if it were to blame. “He won’t touch the servants,” she said. “He never does.”
Sophie smiled sweetly. “That is reassuring, ma’am. Which means that I and my staff are safe from any importunities, and if his lordship is feeling amorous, he’s more likely to look for companionship in the stable than the kitchen.”
“He likes men, not animals!” Mrs. Griffiths snapped.
“As long as he’s uninterested in women, it’s none of my concern. You’ve been most kind in instructing me about the household, Mrs. Griffiths. I look forward to hearing more of your thoughts about the meals in the future.” She gave her a curtsey, trying more for a polite little bob than the full-court obeisance, and then departed before her employer realized that Sophie had dismissed her.
Dickens followed her down the wide marble staircase, wise enough not to remain behind and bear the brunt of Mrs. Griffiths’s displeasure. “I’m not certain that was particularly smart of you, Miss Sophie,” he said in an undertone. “We do our best to placate Mrs. Griffiths whenever possible. She can be a very vindictive woman.”
“Clearly,” Sophie said. She wanted to add, “And she’s a liar as well,” but she stopped herself. Really, she could hardly discuss something as intimate as sexual proclivities with a man old enough to be her father, when she wasn’t even supposed to know about such things. In truth, she didn’t know much. If only her sisters were here—Maddy had faultless instincts when it came to something like that, warning her off one or two extremely handsome young men who had courted her.
If Alexander Griffiths was interested only in men for bedsport, then why had he kissed her like that? No, she didn’t want to think about his kisses. They were too distracting. She needed to stay down in the kitchen and . . .