If you have a bad servant
part with him, a diseased sheep
spoils a whole flock.

—Joseph Florance, celebrated French chef, 1827

Chapter 31

Nathaniel and Helen sat in chairs pulled near Lewis’s bed in his own room at last. Lewis sat propped up with pillows. Though still weak, he had quickly regained his senses once Connor wasn’t there to administer large amounts of laudanum.

Helen raised the teacup to his lips, recalling the doctor’s admonition to give him plenty of liquids.

Lewis sipped, then shook his head. “To think I trusted him.”

Helen bit her lip, then whispered, “As his sister trusted you?”

He glanced at her, then away. “She wasn’t complaining.”

“She is sixteen, Lewis. You must have seemed a god to her. Wealthy and handsome. And old enough to know better.”

He slanted her another glance, then looked at Nate. “So what have you done with him? Has he gone to prison?”

“Connor is on a ship bound for Barbados as we speak.”

Lewis frowned. “What?”

“Nathaniel and Mr. Hudson procured a place for him with an acquaintance returning to the West Indies,” Helen explained.

“But he shot me, tried to—”

Nathaniel cut off his protests before Lewis could work himself into a lather. “Prison means a trial, Lewis. A trial in which your part would be made quite public. In Connor’s mind it was a duel for his sister’s honor. In all truth, I cannot say I completely blame him. If someone treated Helen the way you treated that poor girl”—Nathaniel’s voice shook—“I might very well have done the same.”

Disgust filled him, but he would not lash out at his brother when he was still so weak. He inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Even so, we thought you might sleep better knowing the young man was out of the country.”

Their stillroom maid had begged to go with Connor and would soon be his wife, but Nathaniel did not think Lewis would appreciate the concession and didn’t mention it.

Lewis said nothing for several ticks of the clock, staring at his hands. “And what of the sister?”

With a glance at Nathaniel, Helen said quietly, “She has been settled with relatives. Far away.”

Lewis nodded, lifting his gaze to stare at the striped wallpaper. “Fine by me. She’d grown tiresome of late.”

Inwardly Nathaniel’s anger turned to pity and prayer. Would his brother never change his ways?

Helen offered Lewis more tea, but he waved the cup away, eyes distant. “Still, I shall find her again if I decide to. See if I don’t.”

Pain flashed in Helen’s eyes. Pain and disappointment. “I do see.” She opened her mouth to say more, hesitated, and then instead turned to Nathaniel.

“When you returned from Barbados, I was less than kind to you. I misjudged you, and I apologize. I see now that your motivations were honorable. Your actions meant to protect our family. Thank you.”

Nathaniel’s heart squeezed.

She turned back to their older brother, expression tight. “Lewis, for all your charm and good looks, you are . . .” She broke off, and tears flowed in place of the unspoken words. Her voice thick, she whispered, “But I never could hear a word against you.”

———

Later that day, Nathaniel sat with his steward and his sister in the library, thankful for the fact that it no longer served double duty as sickroom. Nathaniel enjoyed having the private use of the library once more, though Helen still spent more time there than she had before. As did Hudson.

Robert Hudson rubbed his palms together. “What shall we take on next, sir? New plans for drainage? Expanding the orchards? Another trip to London?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Budgeon knocked on the open doorjamb.

“Mr. Hudson, sorry to disturb you, but the candidates are here. Should you like to sit in on the interviews?”

Hudson pulled a face. “Mrs. Budgeon, I have every confidence in your ability to hire a suitable stillroom maid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hudson. And please do remember the annual inspection of linens and livery is at three.”

“How could I forget?” He smiled wryly, and the housekeeper departed.

Helen watched the exchange with interest. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Hudson, but life in service doesn’t seem to suit you.”

Hurt and defensiveness crossed his face. “I am sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

“Not at all. But it is clear to me you are ambitious and capable of a much more self-directed life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Miss Helen.”

“It is. Good heavens, have I been such a shrew you don’t recognize praise from me when you hear it?”

“No, miss. But nor do I take praise from your lips lightly.”

She inclined her head. “I think you could accomplish anything you set your mind to.”

He looked at her significantly. “Anything?”

She blushed. “I refer to business, of course.”

Arnold came in with a special delivery on a tray. Nathaniel’s heart surged to see the familiar handwriting. The much-anticipated letter.

He waved it to gain Helen’s attention. “A letter from Father.”

Helen pressed a hand to her chest. “What does he say?”

Hudson, Nathaniel noticed, gave Helen’s arm a discreet, comforting squeeze.

Nathaniel unfolded the letter and read the first line. “He assures us he is well.”

Helen pressed her eyes closed and sighed. “Thank God.”

He continued to read. Paused. Blinked his eyes, then read the words again. Stunned, he handed the letter to his sister.

For several moments Helen read silently, frowned, then stared up at him, eyes wide. “Good heavens. I have never known him to be so . . . Apparently he was quite shaken by the revolt, the brutality of the soldiers, the confessions of the implicated slaves. . . .”

“Does he say what I think he says?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe so. He says . . . he says you were right, Nathaniel. And he vows to put into motion your plans to extricate our family from any involvement with slavery.”

Nathaniel released a long exhale. “I was afraid to believe my eyes.”

His heart lifted. Sitting there with his sister and friend, and knowing that his father and brother were safe, Nathaniel had a sudden longing to see another quite dear to him.

Margaret dusted the desk in Nathaniel’s bedchamber, careful not to knock over the candle lamp nor break anything else of his. The door opened behind her, and she turned, startled. It was Nathaniel himself.

She backed up a step, disconcerted by the look in his eye.

He stepped forward.

“What is it?” she asked. She held the feather duster before her like a sword.

He advanced, eyes riveted on hers. “Seeing you puts me in mind of a piece of French chocolate.”

She swallowed and took another step backward.

“If one wants to discover what is inside, one must first remove the foreign wrapping.”

The odd light in his eyes both mesmerized and frightened her. She wanted to run; she wanted to stay. Her body, nerves tingling, mind whirling, refused to move. Like a hare cornered by a fox about to pounce, she could only stare, eyes wide. Frozen.

He was only a foot away from her now.

He lifted both hands toward her face. She leaned her head back to evade his reach, but her head came to rest against the wall.

He touched not her face, but her spectacles, gently unhooking them from her ears and lifting them from her nose. “You don’t really need these, do you,” he murmured.

“I do, actually,” she whispered, but he continued on, setting the spectacles on the desk.

He returned his gaze to her face. A gaze too penetrating for comfort. She was torn between wanting to look away and wanting to sink into those intense sea-storm eyes.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. “I hope you don’t think me rude for mentioning it, but you have a little something on your face.” He withdrew his handkerchief, dipped it into the pitcher and came forward with it. She tipped her head back, but he grasped her chin in his long fingers, gently but firmly, and wiped first at one eyebrow, then the other.

“A bit of soot, perhaps,” he said and tossed the handkerchief aside. “From your work with the grates, no doubt.”

“I . . .” she faltered but could form no further words, because now both his hands touched her skin. His fingertips slid over her cheeks and jaw, cupping her face, while his thumbs reached up to rub arcs over each eyebrow, the fine hairs bristling to life under his touch.

Her heart thudded. He knew. He had to know. Was he not surprised to find blond brows beneath the dark? He did not appear surprised.

Emotions crossed his features like lightning dancing across the sky, sparking behind his eyes. “And this cap doesn’t suit you. I’m sorry to say something so ungallant, but there it is. Do you mind?”

She licked her lips. A tremor passed through her, of anticipation, of fear, of hope. If he didn’t know, if he had merely removed her spectacles to see her face more clearly, to ease his way toward—her chest ached to even think the phrase—kissing her. If he really had mistaken her darkened brows for soot . . .

But beneath her cap lay a wig. A wig could be mistaken for nothing but disguise, unless she were bald beneath! No, he must know.

He raised his hands when she would have happily endured them on her face far longer. He peeled off the cap and tossed it on the desk. Again he regarded her. “I am afraid, miss, that your hair, if hair it can be called, does not suit you either. May I?”

Yes, he definitely knew. He did not seem angry, as she would have guessed. Or was he so self-possessed that it did not show? How in control of himself, of the situation, of her, he seemed.

He gave a gentle pull, but the wig caught at its anchor pins, stinging her scalp.

“Pins,” she murmured and managed to reach up and pull them from behind each ear. She was helping him? Yes, she was, she realized. She suddenly wanted very much to stand before him as herself, with no more guise or lies between them. Her hands hesitated, then lowered to her sides. Heart hammering, and more self-conscious than ever, she waited. Waited for him to bare her hair. Her identity.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?”

“I meant to wear it for a masquerade.”

He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.”

He set the wig aside, his eyes lingering on her face, her hair. He reached up, stroking a tendril at her temple that had come free when he’d pulled the wig away.

Then Nathaniel cupped the sides of her face once more. He leaned near, lowering his face toward hers, tipping her chin one way, angling his the other. His eyes roamed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.

She felt warm and flushed, as though she had sipped orange wine. He leaned nearer yet, and she could smell his sweet peppermint breath and shaving soap.

Her voice sounding young and nearly giddy in her ears, she asked, “Are you certain, sir, you ought to kiss a housemaid?”

No answering chuckle. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he whispered, his breath tickling her upper lip with each syllable.

He was going to kiss her. Sweet heaven. Nathaniel Upchurch was going to kiss her. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her heart shot through with electricity.

His head dipped and his lips touched hers, softly, faintly. Too faintly. She couldn’t help it. She leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth more tightly to his. In a second, his arms were around her, molding her body to his in an embrace that stole what was left of her breath. Is this what love is? Oh, what I have been missing!

He pulled his mouth away, grasped her shoulders firmly and took a half step back. “Forgive me, I should not. Not so . . .”

He cleared his throat. If Nathaniel had lost his self-control for one moment, now by painful degrees he mastered it again. He removed his hands, and she felt bereft, nearly chastised, for she had been as overcome with passion as he. For a moment she feared he regretted the kiss, but he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, chasing those doubts away. He then placed his fingertip where his lips had been, tracing the hollow beneath her cheekbone.

She asked, “How long have you known?”

“Ever since I saw you coming from your bath with a towel around your head.”

“So long! And you never said a word?”

“At first I thought I must be imagining things. Then I feared you would be mortified to be discovered in such a role. Finally, I decided I needed to learn what was going on—why you were here, and what you were running from—before I tipped my hand.”

“And have you?”

“I learnt of your coming inheritance and of Sterling Benton’s desperate financial situation. That coupled with the installation of his favorite nephew under his roof led me to believe he was pressuring the two of you to marry. The pressure must have been strong indeed to cause you to run away. To”—he gestured vaguely toward her discarded wig and feather duster—“drive you to this.”

She nodded. “You’re right.”

His gaze roved her face. “I am glad you came to Fairbourne Hall.”

She glanced at him, uncertain. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he said, mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “We needed a new maid.”

He leaned in for another kiss.

Voices in the corridor brought them both up short. This was not the best manner nor place to end her charade. She quickly slicked back her hair and pulled the wig into position. He tugged on her cap for her and crossed to the door while she replaced her spectacles.

Fiona pushed open the door and started at seeing Nathaniel just inside. “Pardon me, sir.”

“No matter, I was just leaving.”

Fiona gaped at Margaret, brows high. Margaret hoped Fiona didn’t notice her eyebrows, or lack thereof.

In return, Margaret shrugged and gave Fiona a bewildered look. It was no doubt convincing.

For she was bewildered.

Nathaniel took himself back down to the library, whistling as he went.

Helen looked up at him from the novel she was reading. “What has you so happy?”

His only answer was a grin.

Hudson, standing near the library window, gave the old globe on its stand an idle twirl, running his finger along the equator as it spun.

Helen watched him. “How much of the world have you seen, Mr. Hudson?”

“Oh, I saw many places in my younger days. The Cape of Africa, Trinidad, Tobago, Antigua. . . . I traveled with a merchant for several years before I decided to stay on in Barbados.” He looked over at her. “And you, Miss Helen?”

“Me? I have been nowhere, save London. Do you miss traveling?”

With a glance toward Nathaniel, he said apologetically, “I admit to a growing restlessness, being indoors so much of the time, and being so far from the sea. I was raised along the coast, you know. And later in Barbados, I was never far from the sea.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“I don’t suppose, Miss Helen . . .” he began cautiously, as if he dreaded her answer. “I don’t suppose you can imagine life anywhere besides Fairbourne Hall?”

She looked up at the ceiling in thought. “Actually, Mr. Hudson, after my years of self-imposed seclusion, I find myself longing for a change. I don’t know if you are aware, but my first love was a sea captain. I looked forward to life on the coast, perhaps even traveling with him from time to time.”

Hudson’s eyes dulled. “I am sorry for your loss.”

She nodded. “I felt sorry for myself too. For a long while. Too long. It was a blow at the time, but it is in the past. I am ready to leave it there.”

Hudson studied her closely. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Which part?”

He grinned. “All of the above.”

Nathaniel was glad to hear it as well.

Arnold appeared in the open doorway. “That Mr. Tompkins is here to see you again, sir.”

Nathaniel pursed his lips in surprise. “Is he? Very well, I shall see him in the morning room.”

Hudson stepped toward the door. “Shall I go with you?”

“No thank you. I will see him myself.”

“Then I suppose I shall return to my duties,” Hudson said with little relish.

Helen looked over at him. “I have a few things to discuss with you, Mr. Hudson, if you wouldn’t mind staying a little longer?”

Hudson stilled. “Of course, miss.”

Helen turned toward Nathaniel. “Unless you wish me to go in with you again, like the last time . . . ?”

Ever the big sister. “No need; stay as you are.”

Leaving Helen and Hudson in quiet conversation, Nathaniel crossed the hall. When he entered the morning room, the bald man stood, chimney-pot hat in hand. Did he not trust the under butler with it?

Nathaniel said, “Well, Tompkins. I am surprised to see you. I thought you would be celebrating your capture of the poetic Preston and spending your reward by now.”

The man smiled, but the gesture did not reach his eyes. “I have, sir. But there is still one outstanding piece of business between us.”

“If it relates to my brother, perhaps you have not heard. He has regained his senses and told the sheriff of Kent all about the ill-advised duel. The challenger has left the country, and considering what Lewis has suffered already, the sheriff has decided not to pursue legal action.”

“I had heard that, yes, sir.”

“Then why are you here? Sorry not to claim that reward as well, from the man who hired you?”

“Finding your brother’s assailant wasn’t what he commissioned me to do.”

“No?” Anger and alarm wrestled within Nathaniel, but he clenched his jaw and waited to hear the man out.

“No.” Tompkins’s high forehead creased into many furrows. “Sorry, sir. A convenient subterfuge.”

Nathaniel guessed the answer, but still asked, “Why were you here, then?”

“I think you know, sir.”

Nathaniel merely stared at him, jaw ticking.

“I came here to find Miss Margaret Macy. Quite a reward was offered me for her return too, should I succeed.” He glanced up at Nathaniel, expectant.

Nathaniel clenched his fist at his side, torn between wanting to pummel the man and wanting to bolt from the room and find Margaret.

He said, “I take it, then, that Sterling Benton hired you?”

“Oh, not exactly hired. But he did put up the reward.”

“Too bad you failed to find her.”

One brow rose. “Oh, but I did not fail.”

Nathaniel clenched both fists now. “Oh?”

“Come, sir. We are men of the world, the both of us. And I see how it is. I would have taken her too, had Preston not shown up here the very night I meant to snag Miss Macy. And as your reward was twice Benton’s, and as I never cared for the man, I took my leave of Kent without her, wishing the both of you happy.”

Nathaniel stared at the man, stunned.

“I only returned to tell you.” He sighed dramatically. “I needed someone to know I’d succeeded, even if I can’t tell anybody else.”

Nathaniel stepped forward, offering his hand. “Thank you, Tompkins.”

The man shook his hand firmly and smiled at last. “Thank you, sir.”

Nathaniel hesitated. “May I offer you something for your kindness?”

Pursing his lips, Tompkins shook his head. “No need. With my new reputation as the thief-taker who brought in the Poet Pirate, I’m set for life.”

Abruptly, Tompkins dug into his coat pocket. “By the way, sir. I’ve brought you some news from London. Hasn’t reached you here yet, I’d wager. I’ll leave it to you to do with it what you will.” He handed Nathaniel a torn and folded piece of newsprint.

Glancing at the torn page and seeing only a portion of the society section, Nathaniel tucked it into his pocket to read later.

No sooner had Mr. Tompkins taken his leave than Dr. Drummond arrived to pay a final call on his patient. Walking upstairs with the physician, Nathaniel quite forgot about the news smoldering in his pocket.