CHAPTER 5

 

Gavin rolled over and groaned, squinting against the blinding afternoon light that streamed in through just-opened curtains.

“I’m that sorry to wake you, m’lord, but you did say I was to call you at four,” said Metzger, his valet. During his many years of service, Metzger had doubled as batman, butler, footman and, on more than one occasion, groom. Now that he was restored to a single post, he took it that much more seriously, looking after his master’s dress and habits far more rigorously than did the Earl himself.

“Can it be four already? It feels as though I’ve just closed my eyes. Very well, Metzger, I’m awake. You needn’t hover,” said Gavin irascibly, earning a grin from his man. “Have a message sent to Miss Cherrystone to meet me in the library in half an hour, then come back to help me with my cravat. I doubt I can manage it myself just yet.”

When Metzger had gone to do his bidding, Gavin rose and regarded himself critically in the mirror. Such late nights—or early mornings, to be more accurate—were doing his looks no good at all. He had suggested to his future brother-in-law, Sir Thomas Chesterton, that he be formally introduced to his fiancée toward the end of the Little Season, thinking that would give him time to become used to the idea of matrimony. But if his antics the night before were any indication, he was as far from doing so as he ever had been.

The betrothal had seemed such a good idea at the time, a veritable godsend. Marriage to an heiress would solve his financial difficulties permanently and give Christabel a mother of sorts in one stroke. With each passing day, however, he found himself regretting that necessary decision more and more. He glanced again at his reflection and winced. If Miss Chesterton saw him like this, she would no doubt cry off at once, making his regrets needless. Nor would Miss Cherrystone—Cherry, he thought with a brief smile—appreciate his appearing in such a state. He reached for a razor.

Half an hour later, shaved, combed and impeccably dressed, Lord Seabrooke descended to the library, looking every inch a peer of the realm. It was odd, he supposed, that the thought of the new nanny’s disapproval moved him to action where the thought of Miss Chesterton’s could not. Already he had found Cherry an intriguing young woman of unusual intelligence, whose severity with himself was belied by her manner with Christabel. Not only did he value her good opinion, but he discovered also that he rather looked forward to the battle of wills about to be joined.

 

* * *

“I’m sorry, Christabel,” said Frederica soothingly for the tenth time. “When your things were brought here, your Molly doll must have been overlooked. I promise to ask Lord Seabrooke about it when I see him this afternoon.” She rocked the unhappy child in her lap in an attempt to comfort her.

Christabel had shown herself to possess a decided stubborn streak when, after her dinner, she had refused to nap without her “Molly Dolly.” Patient questioning had elicited the fact that she had not had it since removing to Seabrooke House, but on this particular afternoon, she suddenly wanted it desperately.

“Uncle Gavin will know,” sniffed Christabel. “He used to talk to Molly Dolly at our tea parties.”

“I’m sure he will,” agreed Frederica. This was the second time Christabel had referred to Lord Seabrooke by that name, but she decided against questioning the child about it. Doubtless the Earl himself, and possibly Christabel’s mother, had striven to hide the truth of the girl’s parentage from her. “With any luck, we can have Molly here in a few days.”

At that moment there came a tap at the door and a man of middle age whom Frederica had not seen before poked his head into the nursery. “Miss Cherrystone?”

“Yes?” She looked up. This must be the valet Mrs. Abbott had mentioned.

“His lordship asks that you join him in the library at your convenience.” His manner was thoroughly deferential, but Frederica doubted that those sharp brown eyes missed much. As he spoke, they took in every detail of herself and the child, as well as the nursery, now a comfortable jumble of toys and books far removed from the ruthless order that had prevailed under Mrs. Abbott’s rule. While Frederica valued order highly, she felt that in a nursery it could be inappropriate if taken to extremes.

“Very well. Lucy should be up in a moment with Miss Christabel’s afternoon morsel. I’ll be down as soon as she arrives.”

“Very good, miss.” Metzger bowed out of the room.

On her way down the long flights of steps to the library, Frederica took her three deep breaths and marshaled her thoughts for the confrontation ahead. During the few hours she had spent with Christabel, she had already formed a sort of bond with the child and was now determined to do all she could to make her lot easier. Again she could hear Miss Milliken’s voice drilling her in the value of thinking through one’s method of attack. With a militant gleam in her eye she tapped on the library door.

Lord Seabrooke stood as she entered, looking quite disturbingly handsome in a dark blue coat, matching waistcoat and crisp, snowy cravat. A few hours’ sleep had certainly done wonders for him, she found herself thinking. Thrusting out her chin, she met his gaze squarely through the spectacles on her nose. “I presume we may talk now, my lord?” she asked before he could speak.

“Yes, my mind is far less fuzzy than it was this morning, Cherry,” he said with a disarming grin that sent a most unwelcome tingle down her spine. “I almost feel I might hold my own in a debate with you now.”

As before, she fought the temptation to smile. “We need to discuss the rules you have laid down for Christabel’s routine. I find them totally unacceptable.”

“So you said earlier. I thought you understood when you took the post that I wished to keep her presence here a secret for as long as possible.”

Frederica was treated to a hint of that steel she had detected in him at their first meeting, but she was undeterred. “I quite understand, my lord, but you must realize that a child is not a mouse or a bird that you can cage in a comer and ignore. How long do you think it will be before Christabel notices what you are doing and begins to suspect that you are ashamed of her?”

The Earl blinked. “I had not thought of that, I must confess,” he said slowly, all trace of humor gone from his face. “I never want her to think that, for I am not. It is merely that her presence here just now could...complicate things.”

Frederica nodded, understanding far better than she intended to let on. She allowed no trace of irony to creep into her voice. “I will respect your wishes for secrecy as far as I am able without harm to Christabel. I propose to take her to the Park regularly, daily if possible, but I am perfectly willing to leave and return to the house via the back entrance and to draw no attention to ourselves when doing so. Once we are in the Park, no one will have reason to suspect that she has any link to you whatsoever. She does not resemble you strongly.”

A sad smile stole over Lord Seabrooke’s face. “No, she is the very image of her mother. Why, I remember—” He broke off abruptly. “I suppose what you suggest might be possible. But what of the servants? I fear I do not trust all of the more recently-arrived ones so thoroughly as I do yourself.”

The implicit compliment warmed her in spite of herself. “I really cannot think we will manage to keep Christabel’s existence a secret from them for long, my lord,” she felt obliged to tell him. “Could you not come up with a plausible excuse for her residence here? I have noticed that already she calls you ‘Uncle.’ Could you not pass her off as a niece? A sister’s child, perhaps?”

To her amazement, a stiff mask descended over the earl’s face. His bright blue eyes narrowed to slits and glittered dangerously at her.

“Absolutely not! If her existence must become known, I shall pass her off as my own. My reputation in Society is already colorful enough that the disclosure of a love child will not alter it appreciably. You will oblige me by not mentioning my sister in such a context again.”

Frederica’s mouth had fallen open. With an effort, she closed it and tried to retrieve her composure, though her cheeks were flaming. Of course no man would insult his sister so—why had she not thought of that before she spoke? “Forgive me, my lord. I—I was not aware that you even had a sister. You are right, of course.” Certainly he was right about his reputation!

“It is agreed, then. You may take Christabel to the Park whenever you see your way clear to doing so secretly. And if it should transpire that explanations must be given, you may say that she is my natural daughter. We shall hope, however, that such explanations will not be necessary.”

“I shall be exceedingly careful, my lord,” she assured him, pleased to have won that small victory for Christabel. He stood again, as though to dismiss her, but she quickly said, “There are one or two other matters, if you please.”

“Never quit while you’re winning, eh, Cherry?” asked the Earl, the twinkle returning to his eyes.

In spite of her resolve to resist his charm, Frederica felt the corners of her mouth twitching. “I would be foolish to do so, would I not, my lord? These are smaller requests, however.” At his nod, she continued. “Firstly, I had thought that Christabel might find her time indoors to hang less heavily if she had more to occupy her imagination and interest. At...at home, I have pet mice in a cage. If you do not object, I should like to bring them here—to amuse her.”

“Mice? You are even more unusual a young lady than I thought, Cherry. Very well. As long as you do not allow them to run rampant or scare the maids, you may bring any pets you wish. This is your home now, after all.” The warmth of his smile made something inside Frederica tighten unexpectedly.

“Thank you. The other matter concerns a doll of Christabel’s that seems to have been misplaced during her removal to this house. She has assured me that you know of it, and I promised her to ask about it.”

“That would be Molly Dolly, no doubt,” said the Earl with a grin. “I remember her well. A sorry-looking rag doll with very decided opinions, as I recall. Christabel cannot find her?”

“No, nor could I, and I assure you that no comer of the nursery went unsearched.”

“There are some boxes that were brought with Christabel that have been stored in the attics. I assumed they merely contained her mother’s things and have not gone through them, but it is entirely possible that Molly Dolly may be in one of them. I shall have them brought down this very afternoon.”

“Thank you, my lord. A special toy, or even a blanket, can be of immense importance to a child of Christabel’s age, particularly when she finds herself in a strange milieu. Will you wish to go through the boxes yourself?” She felt a small pang at the thought of him examining his dead mistress’s possessions.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “You and Christabel may do that. Is that the last of your requests?”

“For the moment,” she replied, smiling at him openly for the first time. “No doubt I shall think of others as time progresses.”

“No doubt.” He returned her smile.

Frederica stood abruptly. “I had best get back to the nursery, my lord. Thank you for your time.”

To her great surprise, the Earl moved around his desk to open the door for her. “Cherry, you must always feel free to come to me with any concerns you have about Christabel—or anything else,” he said seriously, looking down into her face.

For a brief moment their gazes met, and Frederica felt more strongly than ever that disturbing thrill. “Thank you, my lord. I shall,” she said breathlessly, feeling as though she were agreeing to something quite different and far more important. “Good day.” Turning, she hurried from the library and all but fled up the stairs to the relative safety of the nursery.

 

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon was spent in going through the boxes that Lord Seabrooke had delivered to the nursery within the hour. Frederica had feared that the sight of her mother’s things might be disturbing to Christabel, but the child, rooting ruthlessly through gowns, trinkets and bandboxes, seemed intent only on finding her beloved doll.

Frederica was surprised at the clothing the boxes contained. The dresses were for the most part quite conservative—not at all what she would have expected a fancy-woman to wear. At the bottom of one box she discovered a sheaf of letters tied together with a red riband. Love letters from the Earl, perhaps? It occurred to her that the letters might very well be the tangible proof that Thomas would require, and despite a twinge of conscience at the idea of invading Lord Seabrooke’s and the late Miss Amity’s privacy in such a way, she tucked the stack of letters into a bottom drawer in her room.

“Molly Dolly! Here you are!” exclaimed Christabel as Frederica re-entered the nursery. “I’m sorry you had to spend all this time in a box.” She held the doll to her ear. “What? You did? I’m glad.” She turned to Frederica. “She says she had a very long nap and is feeling ever so refreshed now.”

“I’m so pleased that Molly did not suffer from her experience,” said Frederica, coming forward to shake the cloth hand that Christabel held out to her. “I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Molly Dolly.”

Christabel bent her golden head to the doll’s face again. “She says you are very pretty, Cherry, and she likes you. And she wants to know if she may share my supper tonight.”

“Certainly she may. I’ll set a place for her at once.” Lucy brought up the evening meal a short time later, and after she had gone Frederica asked, “What does Molly like best for her supper?”

“Oh, candies and cakes, Cherry! That is all she eats.”

“That doesn’t sound very nourishing. Are you certain she would not prefer some bread and milk first?” Christabel shook her head firmly. “Molly Dolly eats only sweets, and she is never ill.”

“I see that Lord Seabrooke was right. Molly has very decided tastes.” She placed one of her own cakes and one of Christabel’s in front of the doll.

“Could she not have extra cakes just for her?” asked Christabel with a trace of disappointment.

“I’m afraid tonight we shall have to share,” said Frederica, hiding a smile at the child’s tactics. “Perhaps tomorrow we can convince Cook to send a few extras.” Christabel was certainly not lacking in intelligence, she thought, wondering how often Molly Dolly had successfully doubled her pastries in the past. Surely, surely a better future could be contrived for the girl than the bleak one Miss Milliken had painted!

 

* * *

Over the next few days Frederica established a routine with Christabel, discreetly leaving the house after breakfast for an hour or two in Hyde Park before it become crowded. As Seabrooke House was situated on Upper Brook Street, only a short distance from the Park gates, there was no need to draw unnecessary attention to themselves by taking a carriage or hackney.

After an early dinner, Christabel customarily napped while Frederica read in her room or went downstairs to preserve the fiction that she was Mrs. Abbott’s assistant. She found, on those occasions, that there was indeed much she could do to help, for the Seabrooke household was in sad disorder. Indeed, Mrs. Abbott seemed more than grateful for her suggestions regarding the management of the establishment. Christabel then had lessons and games until supper, after which she retired for the night, leaving Frederica at liberty until her own bedtime.

During those first days, Frederica saw little of Lord Seabrooke beyond his daily visit to the nursery and an occasional glimpse of him setting out in his carriage or on horseback as she and Christabel returned from the Park. Fortunately, none of the downstairs servants had yet espied them on their way in or out. Frederica knew that she should give Lord Seabrooke notice so that he could fine Christabel another suitable nanny before she left, but she was so enjoying her time with the child that she was loath to end it.

One symptom of her reluctance to leave was that she had yet to read through the letters she had secreted in her dresser drawer. She told herself each evening that she was too tired, or that the candle was not bright enough, but those factors, oddly enough, did not keep her from perusing books gleaned from the library downstairs.

It was after exchanging one volume for another during Christabel’s afternoon nap that Frederica decided to have a look at the rest of the house. Thus far she had seen little beyond the library, nursery and kitchens. Lord Seabrooke was out, she knew, for she had seen him leaving earlier when she had happened to look down from the nursery window. Walking softly so as not to attract attention from the other servants, most especially the leering butler, she peered into the other rooms on the first floor.

There was a large parlor, obviously intended for entertaining on a lavish scale, that boasted a pianoforte and a harp. Frederica had been used to practicing frequently on both instruments at Maple Hill, and it was with an effort that she refrained from touching them. The dining-room was easily spacious enough to seat forty guests, and the ballroom at the rear of the house was of noble proportions, if in need of a fresh coat of paint.

As she examined each room, Frederica automatically catalogued the changes she would make in the decor if she were mistress of the house: lighter colours in the dining-room, fresh curtains and matching upholstery in the parlor, gilt on the ballroom plasterwork. Yes, Seabrooke House had the potential to be one of the finest in London, she thought.

Opening another door, she saw a long, well-lit room with paintings hung along either wall. “Ah, the family gallery,” she murmured to herself. “I wonder what skeletons I might unearth here?” Letting herself quietly into the room, she walked slowly down its length, stopping to admire an occasional portrait or to read the identifying plaque below.

One painting, in particular, of a beautiful young lady, drew her eye. It was bathed in light from the window opposite, and she paused to gaze at it in delight. The painting could not be very old, she thought, judging by the style of the lady’s gown. As she examined the face before her, she was struck with a sense of familiarity. Surely she had seen those soulful blue eyes, those bright golden curls, before?

Realization hit her like a splash of cold water. It was Christabel’s face, grown up, that looked out at her from the painting. Had not Lord Seabrooke said that she was the very image of her mother? What effrontery to hang his mistress’s portrait in the family gallery! To be certain, Frederica leaned closer to read the plaque.

Amity Alexander.

Alexander? Surely, she thought, Mrs. Abbott had said that was Lord Seabrooke’s family name? Had he married the woman, after all?

But then she remembered their conversation in the library, his outrage at her brash suggestion, and comprehension abruptly dawned. No, he had not married her. Miss Amity, Christabel’s mother, had not been Lord Seabrooke’s mistress at all.

She had been his sister.