Ida stepped over the threshold with the same kind of trepidation she would have felt had she been entering a lion’s den. Hands balled into a pair of tight fists and with her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, she did her best to pretend being here was perfectly normal, that she would be safe in this house, and that Fielding would not betray her. The door closed with a click and she drew a sharp breath.
“One moment,” Fielding murmured. He moved past her, gently brushing her shoulder with his as he went. Her stomach lurched, not from nervousness this time but because of some other feeling she had trouble placing.
Light bloomed in the darkness, pushing back shadows as he adjusted the flame of the oil lamp he’d found. “This way.”
Grabbing the banister for support, Ida followed Fielding up the long staircase that led to the second floor. From what she could tell so far, the house wasn’t large, yet even in the dim light it was clear that it had been fashioned with all the splendor one might expect from a stately manor, complete with a massive entryway mirror and gleaming marble floors.
Once upstairs, she trailed after Fielding while shadows flickered across the walls. She noted four doors on this level, and he selected the one at the end of the hallway. With fluttering heart, she entered the room where she would be staying for the foreseeable future. Fielding, who’d crossed the floor while she lingered near the door, placed the oil lamp on top of a dresser.
“I hope this will do,” he said and glanced around as if seeing the space for the first time. He scratched the back of his head, and it occurred to Ida that he was just as uncomfortable with this scenario as she.
“It’s perfect,” she said in the hope of offering some reassurance.
He spun toward her as if surprised to hear her voice, froze, and then quickly shoved his hands into his pockets. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad.”
Ida bit her lip and moved farther into the room. It was sparsely furnished, though with what appeared to have been very careful deliberation. Fleetingly, she wondered if he’d been in charge of the décor or if he’d allowed a servant to have the responsibility.
And then she wondered how many women Fielding had entertained here, a question that forced her attention toward the large bed standing to her left.
“You should find everything you need,” he said, distracting her from the brief and very unsettling image of him and a faceless woman performing some of the acts she’d witnessed during her time at Amourette’s. He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open. “You can put your clothes in here.”
“I only have a couple of dresses.”
He dropped his hands to his sides and gave her a sheepish glance. “We can order more. In fact, we probably should. As my ward you’ll need to look your best.”
“I do not wish to trouble you more than I already have.”
“Never mind that. If you are to be convincing then you’ll need to play your part.”
“Very well,” she agreed even though the idea of letting him buy clothes for her disagreed.
To hide her embarrassment, she went to glance out the window. She couldn’t see much in the dark, just a few trees silhouetted against the night sky. Perhaps the problem was her being here, in this bedchamber, with a man who wasn’t as unattractive as she would have wished. It heated her skin in a most uncomfortable way.
“It’s very convenient,” she added in an attempt to pretend she was more confident than she was with the whole situation, “you not having a mistress installed.”
“None of my mistresses ever lived here.”
“What?” She turned to him in surprise. Why else would a bachelor have an extra house in the City if not to house the woman he bedded?
“I had them installed in a suite of rooms I rented down near The Strand. This particular house was intended for my mother. She was meant to move in here after I married Lady Gabriella Radcliffe.” When Ida gave him a blank stare, he added, “She is now the Duchess of Huntley.”
“I see.”
“I very much doubt it.” He scrubbed one hand across his jaw and looked askance. “There’s a washstand over there. One of my maids stops by to clean once a week, so there should be fresh water in the jug from yesterday. Towels can be found in the dresser.” There was a pause before he inquired, “Is there anything else you require, besides servants?”
It was strange to see a man of his status be made uncomfortable. There was something oddly attractive about it – a chink in the armor that lent a degree of vulnerability to his otherwise confident demeanor.
“Nothing comes to mind,” Ida said. “And as far as the servants and chaperone are concerned, there’s really no need. I know how to cook, no one will know I’m here on my own since I shan’t be accepting callers, and the clothes I’ve brought with me are practical in nature. I do not need help getting dressed or…”
Undressed.
Her gaze flittered away from his on account of the sudden heat sweeping her skin. She studied the wall beyond his left shoulder.
“I really must insist.” The firm tone of his voice snapped her attention back to him.
“And I would rather you don’t.” When he gave her a stubborn look, she said, “I’ve only just agreed to trust you. If you fill this house with other people, the likelihood of my secrets being discovered before I am ready will only increase.”
“Miss Strong, it is my duty to—”
“My lord.” She spoke as tersely as she knew how. “I have lost my father. Two attempts have since been made on my life. Involving you in my problems is bad enough. I’ll be damned if I’ll risk anyone else’s safety.”
He puffed out a breath, muttered a curse, and glared at her as if she were the biggest nuisance he’d ever encountered. “All right.”
Ida forced back a smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
A hint of indecision followed, until he cleared his throat and said, “I’ll return tomorrow, Miss Strong. We’ll talk at greater length then.”
“You’re not staying?”
“No. I need to return home, but you mustn’t worry. The street was deserted when we arrived. I checked.”
She gave a small nod. It wasn’t the threat of an intruder that dampened her spirits but rather the prospect of losing the earl’s company. After four years in hiding, she’d enjoyed conversing with someone to whom she was closer in station. For although she was fond of Philipa and the rest of the women at Amourette’s, Ida had little in common with them, which made for a rather lonely existence.
She managed a smile. “All right.”
He hesitated briefly, then reached inside his pocket and withdrew a pistol. “Take this. Just in case.”
She stared at the weapon. “Do you always carry that with you?”
“When I know there’s a chance I won’t get home until after dark, yes.” When she said nothing further, he asked, “Do you know how to use it?”
Her gaze met his. “Guthrie showed me.”
“Good.” Stepping forward, he placed the pistol in her hand. His fingers brushed hers and there was a moment – a spark so swift she scarcely had time to acknowledge it before he stepped away again, adding distance. He went to the door and gripped the handle. “You’ve had an eventful day. I suggest you get some rest.”
Upon which he left her.
“Bloody hell,” Simon muttered while heading for home with long strides. Located in St. James’s Square, Fielding House wasn’t far. He’d arrive within fifteen minutes at most. Giving a shake of his head, he quickened his pace. If only Hawthorne and Yates could see him now. If it weren’t for the danger Miss Strong was in, the situation would be amusing. Somehow, within less than twenty four hours, he’d gone from being a stuffy bore, skipped straight past potential rogue, and become a swashbuckling hero.
Well. All right. Maybe that was exaggerating matters a bit. After all, there hadn’t been a swordfight. But, he reminded himself, he had saved a damsel in distress and was now prepared to champion her cause. That had to count for something.
Of course it did, he decided with some satisfaction. He just wished he’d refrained from mentioning Gabriella since doing so could make him look like the sort of man women chose not to pick in the end.
Not that it made any difference.
Miss Strong was a demimondaine, beneath him in every regard, so what did it matter what she thought of him? It shouldn’t. Except it did. God help him but he wanted her to like him.
“Bollocks.”
If she’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t be in this situation, worrying over the opinion of a St. Giles whore.
He halted momentarily and frowned. Miss Strong had referred to her very own aunt using that word, but it didn’t quite fit the lovely, quick-witted young woman with whom he’d been conversing for the past couple of hours. Somehow the connotation lent a lowly grubbiness to it that she decidedly lacked. Courtesan had a more upper crust ring he decided and recommenced walking, satisfied he’d at least found an acceptable descriptive for her.
With a shake of his head, he climbed the steps to his front door with hard and determined footfalls. Once inside, he handed his hat and gloves to Deerford, his butler.
“Mr. Elliot Nugent stopped by earlier this evening,” Deerford said. “He wished to extend his apologies for not being able to meet with you tomorrow for luncheon.”
Simon stilled. He’d completely forgotten the plans he’d made with his uncle. As he was the only close family Simon had left in London, the two made an effort to meet once a week to catch up. “Did he suggest a different time?”
“Drinks at his home tomorrow evening, if you’re able.”
“Thank you, Deerford.” Simon wished the butler a good night and turned away, his thoughts returning to Miss Strong. Distractedly, he climbed the stairs and entered his bedchamber where Gun, his valet, helped him prepare for bed.
“My lord?” Gun inquired with a frown once the task had been accomplished.
“Hmm?”
“I was wondering if there’s anything else you require?”
For a second, Simon was tempted to say, “Yes, please hit me over the head with something so I may forget what I’ve gotten myself into.”
Of course, that would only incite his servant’s curiosity, and besides, Simon very much doubted anything in the world would be able to make him forget the woman who presently slept at Number Five Bedford Street. She embodied an innocent beauty he’d not seen in any woman before – the sort that could easily lend inspiration to poets. Not even Gabriella was as lovely as she. How unfortunate that circumstance had brought her to this point in her young life.
Tired and choosing to favor privacy for as long as he could, Simon shook his head in answer to Gun’s question, relieved him of his duties, and went straight to bed. Lord knew he needed the rest for whatever tomorrow had in store.
When Ida woke the next morning, she stretched and rubbed her eyes before sitting and glancing around. It took her brain a second to adjust and recall why she was in unfamiliar surroundings.
Oh.
Right.
She groaned and flopped back against her pillow. The room she was in, the bed in which she’d slept more comfortably than ever before, belonged to the Earl of Fielding. This was his house and he would arrive at some point during the day so they could discuss their new arrangement.
Another groan left her. What on earth had she been thinking, allying herself with him, a man who represented self-importance, entitlement, and disdain for the common man? He was everything she’d come to despise these past few years, and yet here she was, trusting him with her greatest secrets.
“I must have gone mad,” she muttered when she finally found the courage to climb out from under the lovely warm blankets and face the brisk morning chill. Hugging herself, she fought the instinct to curl her toes into the floorboards. Instead, she hurried across to the chair where she’d placed her clothes. It might be the middle of May, but with the recent weather they’d been having, it felt more like late October.
After donning her stockings and fastening the front of her serviceable stays, Ida moved to the washstand. She fought a shiver and went to work, reminding herself that while she might lack accomplishments and wealth, there was no need for anyone to question her cleanliness. It was one of the things her mother had striven to teach her; no matter what, appearances mattered. It was up to the individual to make sure they made a good impression.
With this in mind, Ida opened her satchel and pulled out a day dress cut from sage green muslin. Although it was slightly crumpled, it would have to do. The one she’d worn the day before had gotten a tear in the side while she’d struggled with her assailant.
Like the rest of the dresses she owned, the one she’d selected was made with practicality in mind. Easy to put on over her head, it contained a ribbon running beneath the breast which could be tied to cinch the back together in order to create an elegant pleat. Pleased with her appearance when she stepped before the cheval glass a few minutes later, Ida gave herself a satisfied nod and went to explore the rest of the house.
Behind the other upstairs doors she’d passed last night were stairs leading up to the servants’ quarters, an extra bedroom, and a small sitting room which had no doubt been intended as a private retreat where Fielding’s mother could take her tea in a less formal setting. An ache bloomed within Ida’s heart. She’d known a similar room once. Her mother had loved sitting near the bright sunny window it had contained, working away on her knitting while Ida’s father read a book. Everything had been perfect before the war. Ida’s world had been filled with happiness and love.
How swiftly life could change.
With a shake of her head she chastised herself for her maudlin thoughts and headed downstairs. It was pointless reflecting on something that would remain lost forever.
Better to look ahead.
She opened a door and surveyed the parlor. It was small, but comfortable. So were the dining room and the library. The study had been done up in a feminine style and fitted with an elegant escritoire that she immediately fell in love with. It made sense that the earl had meant for his mother to live here. The house was clearly intended to house a woman, not a man, and whoever had furnished it had done so sparingly, albeit with an eye for good taste.
Ida’s stomach grumbled, alerting her to her increasing hunger. It was time to locate the kitchen and find some food. But after rummaging through all the cabinets and inspecting the larder, the only edible items she came up with were some stale biscuits.
At least there was tea.
Grabbing a jug, Ida stepped out into the small back courtyard where the water pump stood. Within ten minutes she had the water she needed, had filled a kettle, and lit the stove. Fifteen minutes later, she perched herself on a stool and sampled her efforts while glancing around, wondering what to do next. Fielding hadn’t been very precise when he’d departed last night. He’d just told her they’d speak tomorrow, so it could be late afternoon before he decided to rise, finished conversing with the secretary he likely employed, and remembered to check on her. By which time she would likely have starved to death.
She reached for one of the stale biscuits, puffed out a breath, and took a bite. It tasted all right, but the texture was awful – like trying to chew through a stack of paper. Nevertheless, she finished it off and ate two more. It was either that or feel like her stomach was being ripped open from within.
Once done, she returned to the hallway, taking another cup of tea with her, and studied the clock. Her shoulders sagged. It was only a few minutes after nine – a measly hour since she’d woken. At this rate she’d soon be rearranging furniture out of sheer boredom.
Unless of course she used her time productively.
Turning her back on the odious clock, she went to the study and took a seat at the escritoire. It didn’t take long for her to locate the items required to pen a letter. All the necessary supplies were in a drawer.
With a quick inhale, she dipped her quill in the ink well.
Dear Philipa,
Upon reaching Windham House last night, I learned that Guthrie has travelled and will not return for the next three weeks, so I have sought help elsewhere. Please do not fret, for I am perfectly safe, though I prefer not to say where in writing.
Hopefully, I shall see you again soon.
With love,
Ida
Happy with the message, Ida blotted the ink, folded the paper, and sealed it with a blob of red wax. She’d have to ask Fielding to have it delivered, today if possible.
Refusing to look at the clock when she re-entered the hallway, Ida averted her gaze from it as she went to collect her knitting. There wasn’t much work left on the second half-glove she was making for herself, but the eyelet pattern had challenged her skill from the very beginning, and every once in a while she caught herself miscounting the stitches. Even so, she still managed to complete the accessory in just under an hour and proudly tried the pair on. She gave her hands a satisfied smile. The gloves would serve her well come winter.
Right. What next?
There was always the library.
Venturing into the neat room where four large bookcases stood against one wall with a loveseat opposite, Ida scanned the shelves and was happy to find a couple of cookbooks. They weren’t on prominent display but stuffed into a corner like surplus items from another household in hasty need of a new location.
To Ida, they were like gold, for she loved discovering new recipes. Her mother had been an excellent cook and she’d taught Ida everything she knew. After she died, Ida had cooked for herself and her father, then occasionally for Philipa and the rest of the girls at Amourette’s whenever the cook there was sick or needed a rest.
Leafing through the pages, Ida made a mental note of the recipes she’d like to try. She was especially fond of baking, so the tea buns and shortcakes tempted her most while the soups held less appeal. Recalling the escritoire, she pursed her lips and went to fetch some writing utensils. It was now just after eleven. By the time she’d finished jotting down all the ingredients she’d need for the buns and the stew she’d decided to try, it was half past twelve.
Returning to the foyer, Ida stared at the front door and willed Fielding to open it – to arrive so they could get on with the day. Instead, the clock kept ticking away the seconds at an infernally slow pace. To her annoyance, Ida realized she was starting to get hungry again. All that thinking about delicious food had not been the best idea after all. Reading something tedious like The Canterbury Tales might have been wiser. It would at the very least have put her straight back to sleep and saved her from standing here, hoping a man she barely knew would add some excitement to her day.
When he still hadn’t shown up half an hour later, she made her decision. With the money she’d brought along from Amourette’s stashed in her pocket, she exited through the back door and set off at a brisk pace. If Fielding showed up before she returned, then he could wait for her for a change.