The back door closed behind Cecelia with a decided snap. James sat for a while in the dingy kitchen, which suddenly felt emptier than it had yesterday. Seeing Cecelia had been a comfort, he realized. She’d always been that, even when they disagreed. Particularly when they disagreed—somehow. Mysteriously. He hadn’t quite seen it before. Not the depth of it. He looked at the basket she’d brought. That apple had tasted ambrosial and like…kindness. Even affection?
He’d made her angry today. No doubt about that. He hadn’t meant to blame her for his situation. Sometimes he said things that sounded right at the time and wrong later, when he was alone and heard their echo. This was one of those times. His apology hadn’t come out right either. The humor had fallen woefully flat. And now she was gone.
He rose and made the tea. It didn’t taste quite right, and there was no milk. But it was better than none. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? He had it with another scone. Proper food was so much more satisfying than the stuff he’d been eating.
Surely Cecelia would visit him again? She was curious as a cat. She wouldn’t be able to resist. This was assuming he was actually going to stay in Uncle Percival’s wretched house. James looked around the empty kitchen, the antithesis of the cozy, bustling, aromatic place it should be.
He thought of going home, ordering Hobbs to fill a bath, sharpen his razor, lay out fresh clothing. The idea was tempting. Hobbs, at least, wouldn’t criticize. He rarely said much of anything. He would do as he was told, and James would soon look like himself again.
And then what? He would have to face society as the man who’d lost control and behaved dishonorably. There would be whispers and impertinent questions, and of course Prince Karl’s smug triumph. There was no doubt that man would gloat. He seemed to have a distinct talent for it.
James could brush through the gossip. Now that some time had passed, he could see the possibility. It wasn’t as if he’d never made a mistake. His reputation would withstand the errant punch. Eventually. He could turn the whispers back on themselves. A few hotheads would even admire him for exploding. After a time—tedious and annoying—all would go back as it had been.
But the odd thing was, he wasn’t sure he wanted that.
James looked around the ill-kept kitchen again. Cluttered, forlorn. And yet this ruined household was part of his new responsibilities as duke. There were others as well. Tasks more important than any he’d been required to do before. His established routine began to look stale, a bit small, from this new vantage point. Changes were called for. But what kind? And how?
He’d proposed to Cecelia; she’d refused him. James felt a stab of resentment and regret at the memory. She ought to have taken him. Each time he thought of it, the idea made more sense and held more attractions.
He gazed at the basket she’d brought, the money she’d left on the table. He’d counted on Cecelia so many times. He’d turned to her, trusted in her. Could she say the same of him? He had a sinking feeling that the answer was no. Worse, he hadn’t cared about the disparity. Not until he was about to lose her to some fool of a prince.
Every sentiment rose up in James to protest this. His competitive streak might be uppermost, but other less familiar urges jostled behind it. That could not be! He had to get her away from that smug blusterer. He would return to his rooms, repair the ravages to his appearance, and find her. He would convince her!
In the midst of a crowd of yammering gossips and inconvenient friends, another part of him noted. He remembered how impossible it was to see her alone now. And with his recent behavior, it would be even worse. Society would be wild to corner him, question him, twit him about his loss of control. Cecelia would be pulled even further away.
His gaze caught on the basket once again. In this house, there were no distractions. Just the two of them, face-to-face. They would not be stared at and interrupted. Most importantly, there was no Prince Karl to stick his nose in where he was so emphatically not wanted. James would have time to find the right words, to show her…whatever it was that she needed to see.
James nodded. He had no doubt he could lure her back. His uncle Percival’s epic level of untidiness would eat at Cecelia Vainsmede, offending all her instincts. Knowing he was here, dealing with the chaos, she would return, and he would win her over. He felt a smile spread over his face at the idea. The conquest of Cecelia offered so many delectable possibilities. They filled his mind and roused his body.
But none of that could happen while he was living in squalor. James looked down at his dust-smudged hands, pushed the teacup away, and stood. Something had to be done about that. And she had given him a clue.
James went out the back door and across the cobbled yard behind the house. He entered the stables without knocking. They were his, after all. The creak of the hinges set off a flurry of motion in one of the loose boxes. Four figures leapt up from a pile of musty hay and faced him, at bay in the dim light.
The tallest, a woman, pushed three children behind her. Very thin, dressed in layers of ragged clothing, she was visibly trembling. The smallest child whimpered. James had intimidated people in his time, but he had never knowingly terrified anyone. It was an unpleasant sensation. “Hello,” he said. “I am Tereford.” Immediately he wondered if his name would mean anything to them.
Apparently it did. “We didn’t mean no harm, milord,” said the woman. Her voice shook. “It was just so cold in the night, and we didn’t have nowhere…” She broke off, swallowed. “If we could stay one more day. Then we’ll move on.” The tallest child, a boy, stepped up beside her, his expression belligerent.
“Where would you go?” James asked. He’d never had dealings with people in their situation. One passed them in the street now and then, dropped a coin, and thought no more about it.
The woman slumped. Clearly she had no answer. She looked beaten.
“These stables was empty,” said the boy. “Nobody using them. Why shouldn’t we get out of the rain? No harm done, eh?”
“Ned,” said the woman.
“That is your name?” James asked. “Ned what?”
“Ned Gardener.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.” At a glare from his mother, the boy added, “Sir. Milord.”
James would have thought him younger from his meager frame. All three children had hollow cheeks and wrists that showed every bone. That wasn’t right. “And so you are Mrs. Gardener?” he asked the woman.
“Yes, milord.” She stood straighter. “I was married in a church and all.” As if she knew more questions would come, she added, “My husband died in an…accident. I was taking in laundry, but it weren’t enough to pay for our lodgings. So we was turned out.”
“’Cause that doxy would give her more,” said Ned.
“Ned!”
“Well, she would,” the boy mumbled.
“Will he send us to the workhouse?” whispered one of the children behind his mother. She made it sound like the pits of hell.
“We ain’t going there,” declared her mother. “I’ll find someplace. Never you mind.” She sounded deeply frightened and yet stalwart. James had to admire such determination against the odds.
He’d never hired a staff. Hobbs had come to him without effort, on a friend’s recommendation. He’d employed no other servants. This forlorn family was hardly suitable for a duke’s household. But his household was not exactly ducal at this point, was it? Rather the definition of not in fact. Perhaps this woman was sent by Providence? On both sides of the transaction? Coincidence at least, he acknowledged. To be considered surely? “Can you cook?” he asked her.
“What?”
“I am in need of help in the house. Particularly cooking.” After the toothsome scones, he simply could not face another greasy pie. “As well as some help shifting things.” James examined the skinny boy. Not much muscle there, but once he was properly fed… “Perhaps Ned could do that. And run errands. Accompany you to the market, I suppose.” The other children peeking out from behind the woman’s skirts were girls. Smaller. James was no good at judging ages. “What are your names?” he asked them.
They ducked out of sight. “Jen and Effie,” said their mother.
“Too young to be working, but…”
“I kin work,” said the larger one, reappearing. “I kin scrub. And peel taters. And tend chickens. I ain’t afraid of chickens.” Her small face was taut with anxiety, every muscle visible.
James felt a pang. “How old are you…Jen?”
“Eight. Plenty old enough to work.” She spoke as if she’d heard this phrase very often in her short life.
“I see. Well, would all of you like to work for me?”
The desperate hope that appeared in the woman’s eyes pained him. “The house is in a poor state,” James added.
“It’s daft,” said Ned.
“You’ve been inside?”
The whole family froze like rabbits spotting a snake.
“I looked through the winders, like,” replied Ned.
“Ah.” The boy seemed quick. James imagined that he’d slipped in to see what he could pilfer. James didn’t blame him, though that must stop now. “Well then, you have seen that there’s much to do.”
“I’ll take any sort of work, milord,” said the woman. “We all will. Don’t matter how hard.” Her breath caught in her haste to assure him. “I can cook plain dishes. Not like you’re used to mebbe.” Her face creased with distress.
“They must be better than what I’ve had lately.” James made up his mind. This had unfolded felicitously. More for the Gardeners perhaps than for him, but…he would try it out. Where was the harm? “Come into the kitchen where it’s warmer, and we will set out a plan. Wages and so on.”
Mrs. Gardener took a step forward as if she still didn’t believe he meant it.
“I have scones,” James said.
The smallest child burst into tears.
***
“Ah, there you are. Just in time for the waltz.” Prince Karl offered his arm as if Cecelia belonged to him. She wanted to say that she was already engaged for this dance, but it wasn’t true. She had only just arrived at the ball, and he was the first to approach her.
Cecelia looked up at the tall, blond figure. The prince’s dress was always vaguely military, without being a uniform. He was undeniably handsome, with his pale skin, jutting cheekbones, and hazel eyes. The satirical set of his lips was…intriguing. He appeared constantly, distantly amused, as if the world was a comedy presented for his entertainment. It made her wonder about his opinion of England.
With James’s disappearance, society seemed to have decided that there was an agreement between her and the prince, even though nothing had been settled or announced. Prince Karl’s attitude certainly encouraged this view. His proprietary air annoyed her, but she also felt a lingering enjoyment at her new status in the ton. To become an acknowledged belle at this stage was a guilty pleasure. Cecelia felt she shouldn’t savor it, but now and then she still did. She accepted his arm and walked onto the floor.
The music began. Prince Karl pulled her slightly too close—not quite to the point where a young lady might complain. But very nearly there. A quick glance told her that he knew this. He had judged it to a nicety. And he was enjoying his own skills.
He was a good dancer. He added turns and flourishes that drew admiring glances. His arm at her waist was masterful. His conversation was more interesting than many another man’s. He seemed truly interested in her ideas. She couldn’t say if the partiality he exhibited was love. She didn’t know him well enough.
But there were quite a few points in his favor, and he seemed primed to offer for her. Briefly, she contemplated accepting him. To actually become a princess would have been unimaginable a few short weeks ago. But the title wasn’t the chief temptation. Prince Karl opened the possibility of a more adventurous life than she’d thought to have. She would live in another country, learn a new language and customs. She might even contribute to the welfare of a different people. The prince seemed ready to listen to her. That was an interesting thought. If James had not existed, she might have…
But he did. And Cecelia wasn’t certain she would ever feel as deeply about another man. Even though that was folly.
“Daydreaming, Miss Vainsmede?” Prince Karl asked. “Is my dancing…insufficiently exciting?”
The look he gave her promised more earthy attractions. Cecelia’s cheeks heated. “Not at all.”
“Ah. That is good. I am pleased I have the ability to…excite you.”
This was more than light flirtation. It skirted very near the line. “Dancing is always invigorating,” she replied.
He smiled down at her, acknowledging an evasion. That was another thing: he was intelligent. She could never pledge herself to a stupid man.
The music ended. Prince Karl held her for a moment longer than was strictly proper, releasing her just as she might have protested. Cecelia gave him raised brows. He laughed as he stepped away. His games were an innovation in her life. She had to admit that.
Cecelia turned toward Sarah and Charlotte, who were standing on one side of the ballroom. When they reached them, the prince bowed over her hand. “Alas that I must dance with another,” he said. Nodding to the other young ladies, he moved away.
“Not one of us apparently, Sarah,” said Charlotte.
“Shh! He’ll hear.”
“I don’t think he or I would care if he did,” replied Charlotte.
“You don’t like Prince Karl?” Cecelia asked her.
Charlotte started to speak, paused, then said, “I’m not certain whether it’s that, or merely pique at being so thoroughly ignored.”
“He is extremely…focused,” said Sarah.
“You are excessively kind,” replied Charlotte. “I have always said so.”
“Thank you.”
“I did not mean it as a compliment.”
Cecelia laughed as the two exchanged grimaces that had surely originated at a much earlier age.
Another set was forming. They were all invited to join it, and the ball made its stately, predictable way through the night. Prince Karl did approach Cecelia for a second dance, but this time she was spoken for. He received her refusal with gratifying regret.
Cecelia danced. She partook of the delicate supper provided. She danced some more. She missed James, whose absence was still a sensation among the ton. They had stood up together at nearly every ball in the last two seasons. It was odd to attend one without his suave presence. At least people had stopped asking if she knew where he’d gone. She’d honestly denied it at the beginning. Now that she knew, she preferred not to lie.
She was still thinking about him the following morning when a footman found her in the drawing room and handed her a folded note. Opening it, she recognized James’s handwriting. “Who brought this?”
“A street urchin pushed it into my hand and ran away,” the footman replied disapprovingly.
Aunt Valeria looked up from her notetaking.
Nodding a dismissal to the servant, Cecelia read the words. James wanted more money. He asked politely, promising to return any sums advanced. This meant he was still at the ducal town house. She let the sheet of paper fall to her lap.
“What has a street urchin to do with you?” asked her aunt.
“My…friend merely employed him to carry the message.”
“Lacking a servant?”
“I suppose,” Cecelia said, conscious that it was an evasive answer.
“And which friend would that be? Surely not one of your young ladies? That makes no sense.”
Aunt Valeria gazed at her, waiting for an answer Cecelia did not wish to give. Not for the first time, or the hundredth, Cecelia noted how much her aunt resembled Papa. Both of them were plump and blond, with a bland air that disguised acute minds. She recognized the glint in her aunt’s blue eyes now, from years of seeing it in Papa. Aunt Valeria was curious, and she wanted her curiosity satisfied. She would not stop until it was. She didn’t care particularly about the underlying issue, but she would not be mystified. “It is a request for aid,” Cecelia tried.
“Some charitable endeavor?”
Could James be defined so? Hardly. Unless one theorized that exile amid piles of discarded furnishings was good for him? Cecelia allowed herself a nod.
“It is no use giving money to street children,” said her aunt. “That is a bottomless pit. You will make no difference.”
“I know that you think so.” Aunt Valeria had no interest in philanthropic endeavors, though she could sometimes be brought to feel for individuals.
Her flicker of interest exhausted, the older lady waved this aside and returned to her work.
Cecelia reread the note. Procuring the funds was no obstacle. She managed her father’s affairs and was well known to his banker. But if she refused wouldn’t James have to go home? And was that not best?
In the end she decided it wasn’t her decision to make. She would do as he asked one more time.
***
Later that day, once more in her drabbest gown, Cecelia returned to Tereford House, retracing her previous route. She found the stables empty and was disappointed that James had turned the poor family out. The back door was again unlocked, and she slipped through, to be surprised by sounds of conversation from the kitchen.
Quietly, she pushed the inner door open and discovered the woman she’d last seen in the stables bent over the hearth. A little girl of perhaps five stood next to her, staring at whatever was sizzling in a pan with avid anticipation. The woman poked at it with a toasting fork.
The child turned her head and noticed Cecelia. She gasped and clutched her mother’s skirts. “There’s a lady.”
The woman straightened and turned. She looked better. Her clothes were still ragged, but her face and hands were very clean and her hair was braided and coiled into a tidy bun. She dropped an unpracticed curtsy. “Good day, miss. His lordship said you might come.”
“He…did?”
“He said he expected you would.” She set aside the fork, wiped her hands on an apron that was more substantial than her gown, and added, “Go and fetch him, Effie.”
The child rushed out.
“Would you care to sit, miss? It ain’t proper, being the kitchen and all, but there’s no other room, er, suitable. And I scrubbed everything clean.”
“Thank you.” She examined the low stools and rejected them. “I am Cecelia Vainsmede.”
“Emmaline Gardener,” the woman replied with another bob. “Missus,” she added as if Cecelia might have some doubt.
“You’ve moved in from the stables?” Was it possible that James hadn’t even noticed? No, of course not.
“To work for his lordship,” was the reply.
“I’ve hired the whole family,” said James’s voice from the doorway. He came in, wearing the same clothes as before, only dustier. He had shaved and washed, however, and brushed back his dark hair.
The first little girl trailed after him. Two older children followed. They congregated around their mother. “Mrs. Gardener, Ned, Jen, and Effie,” James added, pointing at each one as if to prove he knew their names.
“Hired them?”
Mrs. Gardener looked apprehensive at Cecelia’s sharp tone.
“Yes.”
Was he actually proud? Who was this new James?
“I take it you’ve brought what I asked for,” he said.
“I have.” She touched her reticule, which bulged with a roll of banknotes.
“Splendid. We’ve nearly cleared out one room, thanks to my new helpers.” James gestured at the two older children.
“I got a pony,” said the girl. Jen, Cecelia recalled. She pulled a small china horse from the pocket of her gown and displayed it.
“Come, I’ll show you.” James beckoned Cecelia, then held up a hand when Ned started to follow them.
The room where Cecelia had found him the last time was indeed nearly empty. A pile of discarded items could be seen outside the window. It rose in an untidy mound to just below the sill. “I shall hire someone to haul that away,” said James when he saw Cecelia looking at it.
“This remains your method? Throwing things out the window?”
“Why not? They are refuse. And it is impossible to maneuver inside the house.”
She had to admit that was true.
He extended his hand. She pulled out the money and gave it to him.
“Splendid. I’ve given Mrs. Gardener everything I had left to buy provisions. I think she’s worried that I’m as poor as she is.”
“James.”
“The whole family is staying in the servant’s old room in the basement. It’s rather a hole, with a single cot. I’m surprised anyone tolerated it. We unearthed some cushions for the children to sleep on.” He looked around. “I shall move them up here next, until we can clear more space. There’s no lack of furnishings, of course.” He offered a wry smile.
“James.”
“The children are more help than I’d expected. This seems like a treasure hunt to them. They make a game of it. I’ve let them keep a few trinkets to encourage that idea. It rather keeps one’s spirits up.”
“You can’t mean to stay here,” said Cecelia. But she wondered. She tried to remember when she’d seen him in such a carefree, ebullient mood.
“I can do as I like.” He turned away from her. “I have found some real treasures. Come, I’ll show you.” He walked out.
Cecelia followed. They edged along the cluttered corridor to the entryway and then up the stairs and down another hall. James disappeared through a doorway.
Entering behind him, Cecelia found a bedchamber with a canopied bed and conventional shaving stand. It was old-fashioned, but a relief compared to the oppressive crowding in the rest of the house. Three massive wardrobes lined up along one wall were the only reminders of that.
A table on one side held an array of objects. Cecelia spotted a beautiful silver creamer, an inlaid snuffbox, a tiara worth a great deal if the jewels were real. Surely they couldn’t be? There were some carved jade figurines and a small, exquisite cloisonné vase.
“Look here,” said James, opening a wooden box. “These are very old, I think.” He displayed a set of stone blades that looked as if they belonged in a museum.
“All of these things were in the jumble?”
“Stuck in nooks and crannies,” replied James.
“That’s idiotic. The old duke must have had some system.” The idea of none at all appalled her. Chaos made her brain reel.
“After sifting through the contents of just one room, I can state definitively that he did not,” James replied. “He seems to have had the mind and habits of a demented pack rat.”
“He needed help. But no one knew.” Cecelia wandered over to one of the wardrobes. She reached for the clasp.
“Don’t open that!”
But she already had. A landslide of clothing tipped out and fell over her. She was engulfed by a flood of fabric and the overpowering smell of camphor.
James caught her around the waist to steady her. “Every chest and wardrobe in this house is crammed to bursting,” he said. “That happens whenever one opens a wardrobe. Be grateful it was only cloth. Ned was battered by a hail of gravy boats.”
Garments continued to fall. Cecelia batted at them.
James pulled her from under the onslaught. She leaned against him, soft and fragrant in his arms. The top of her head was just at his chin. She felt delightfully curved and pliable.
She turned in his embrace and looked up. Their lips were inches apart. James became aware that they were in a bedroom. In their long association, they had never been alone together in a bedroom. The sheets beckoned. All these years and he had never kissed her. In these last few weeks, everything had changed. Desire flamed through him. He wanted to, desperately.
His arms started to tighten of their own accord. His head bent. Cecelia gazed up at him, unmoving. Anticipating? Could she be wondering what it would be like to kiss him? She blinked. Her lips parted. She drew in a breath.
And James suddenly became conscious of his disheveled state. He might be fragrant in quite a different way from her subtle perfume. He’d probably smudged her gown with dust.
He let go of her and stepped back.
They faced each other, drifts of the old duke’s clothes around their feet. Cecelia’s cheeks were flushed. Was her breath as quick as his? Did her heart pound? James was uncharacteristically speechless. He’d asked her to marry him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask whether she might wish to kiss him. That was ridiculous. But somehow still true. He neither understood nor appreciated the dilemma.
He looked away, and his gaze immediately encountered the bed. Right there, seductive as a siren song. He dropped his eyes to the sea of fabric on the floor, and saw them as the scattered garments of two lovers in the haste of desire. If he picked her up and carried her to… No. That was unacceptable.
He took a step back. His left foot tangled in a dark-blue coat and nearly tripped him up. He reached down to pull it away. The cloth and workmanship were very fine. “Hah,” he said, holding it up as a diversion. “This might be one of Weston’s.”
Cecelia moved out of the mass of cloth. “I can’t quite imagine your great-uncle going to a tailor.” She sounded breathless.
James was glad to hear it. “He had to get clothes somewhere.”
“If it was his. Surely all this cannot be.” She gestured at the sea of fabric.
“I wonder.” James was very weary of his own dusty coat. Unthinking, he shed it and pulled this new one on. “It doesn’t fit like one of Weston’s, but it might do.”
“Do? You look like a stripling who has outgrown last year’s wardrobe.”
James swung his arms. The coat was tight.
“The sleeves are too short, and the shoulders clearly bind,” Cecelia added. “I wager you can’t button it.”
James tried. The coat wouldn’t close. “Uncle Percival was a wiry old fellow,” he acknowledged.
“You look silly, James. If you are actually staying here, send for your own clothes.”
The briskness was back in her voice. He had missed his moment. The kiss—the compelling possibility of a kiss—was gone. “Hobbs is incapable of keeping his mouth shut,” he replied. “He would bring all of society down on me.” He quickly slipped off the coat and resumed his own. “I suppose we must cram this back into the wardrobe,” he said.
“Why not take some down to Mrs. Gardener?” asked Cecelia. “It is all fine cloth. She can use it to make new clothes for her family.”
He thought of their ragged layers. “A good thought.” He started to gather up an armload of fabric.
“I wonder if she has sewing supplies?” said Cecelia as she followed suit.
“I believe all that exists in this house somewhere,” said James.
Together, they made their back to the kitchen with their spoils.
But Mrs. Gardener didn’t seem grateful for the offerings. “You should sell those garments if you don’t want ’em, milord,” she said. “I know a place you could get a good price.”
“That’s not necessary. You can alter them.”
“Cloth that fine? I’d look a fool. And I couldn’t work in such stuff.”
“But Effie would like a silk dress, wouldn’t you, Effie?” James asked.
The smallest Gardener, who had been fingering a silk dressing gown, dropped it guiltily.
“Effie don’t need any such thing,” said her mother.
James dug out the coat that hadn’t fit him. “Here, Ned, try this.”
The boy hesitated, not quite believing but clearly drawn. His mother made an uneasy sound. Ned couldn’t resist. He put the coat on. It was large on him, but not excessively so. “You’ll grow into it,” James told him.
“This is a good weave, this is,” Ned said, fingering the cloth. “And ever so well made. Look at that stitching.” He preened.
His mother and sisters went very still, giving James nervous sidelong looks. He was puzzled by their reaction. It was almost as if they expected an attack.
“He can’t have a coat that fine,” said Mrs. Gardener then. Her voice was tight. She frowned at Ned, seeming to convey a message.
“Of course he can.” James looked from one Gardener to another.
Ned was swiftly removing the coat. “Somebody’d steal it off me,” he said. His voice was tight with regret and something more. Fear?
“They wouldn’t dare.” James was irate at the idea.
The entire Gardener family looked back at him as if they despaired of explaining the truth of their world to someone who’d never experienced it.
“Those who belong to my household will be properly clothed,” James declared. “We will present a proper appearance, one that warns off thieves.” He met each Gardener’s eyes in turn. “Is that understood?”
Mrs. Gardener curtsied. After a moment Jen copied her. “Yes, milord,” said the woman. “I’ll get to work soon as I find some thread.”
“You might want to hire a seamstress,” murmured Cecelia.
He turned to her.
“Mrs. Gardener might well know of a suitable one,” she added.
James thought that Cecelia was looking at him as if she’d never seen him before. Which was odd because he was feeling rather the same about her.