Historical Novel: Her Master and Commander - Karin Hawkins - الصفحة 3

10-01-08, 05:51 PM

المشاركة رقم: 11

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الكاتب:	darla
اللقب:	سندريلا ليلاس

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التسجيل:	Aug 2006
العضوية:	11023
المشاركات:	5,556
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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 3

It is your duty to make certain your master and everything about him are presented to his peers with care and style. A good butler never ceases his efforts until the last spoon is in place, the table linen pressed and starched, the floors polished and the brandy dispensed. “Steadfast to the last” will win the day.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Prudence marched home, her heavy boots thumping loudly on the stone-strewn pathway. Blast that man! He was impossible, rude, arrogant, irritating, and worse. All she’d asked was that he keep his silly sheep on his own land. Why couldn’t he just do that one small thing?
Worse, he’d seemed supremely unimpressed she’d made such a request. Perhaps he wasn’t teasing when he said penning sheep was not required. Which was, of course, the silliest thing she’d ever heard. Of course, there’d been many things living in the country had taught her, one of them being the rather narrow nature of some of the laws.
She turned off the road and onto the garden path, the fragrant scent of mint lifting in the fresh air. The breeze danced about, rifling through the crisp brown leaves.
Prudence made her way to the front door. Painted red, it mirrored her temper. Scowling, she grasped the chilled brass handle and gave it a firm twist. It creaked open. Just as she entered, the wind grabbed the door from her hand and slammed it shut behind her, the sharp sound echoing through the house.
“Prudence?” Mother hurried out of the sitting room, her brow drawn, her gentle green eyes troubled. At fifty-two, she was still an attractive woman, her soft brown hair carrying only a touch of gray at her temples. “Prudence! Why did you slam the door?”
Prudence undid her bonnet and set it on the small table beneath the peg where she hung her muffler. “The wind caught the door. I hope it didn’t frighten you.”
Mother smiled, smoothing her skirts a bit, some of the tension leaving her face. “Oh no! I just thought you might be agitated about something.”
“Me? Agitated? Perish the thought!” Not that she didn’t feel like slamming the door—she had. But she refused to give in to base anger. The captain’s rude behavior called for something far more planned and cunning. A grand scheme, perhaps, one that would reduce him to a quiver.
Feeling somewhat placated by such an image, Prudence hung her cape over her muffler on the peg and managed a smile. “How was your morning, Mother?” Prudence went past her mother and into the sitting room. “Did you finish darning the tear—”
A man turned from where he’d been standing in the middle of the room. Of average height with brown hair and blue eyes, he was attractive in a rather quiet way.
Prudence dipped a reluctant curtsy. “Dr. Barrow. What a pleasant surprise.” She sent a hard look at Mother who colored but kept a determinedly innocent look on her face.
“Mrs. Thistlewaite,” the doctor said, gulping loudly. “H—How nice to see you. I just came by to, ah—I came to see if perhaps—that is to say, I was wondering if—” He shot a panicked glance at Mother.
“Prudence,” Mother said a little too brightly. “Dr. Barrow came to see if you were available for a ride in his new carriage!”
The last thing Prudence wanted was to ride in a carriage with a man who could not string two sentences together without blushing. While it was true the doctor was a very kind, gentle sort of man, there was none of the deep connection she’d felt with Phillip.
Phillip. She looked down at her hands, clasped before her. She missed her husband even now, three entire years after his death. Not as much as she once had—there had been weeks, even months, when she’d wondered if she’d ever smile again. She had, of course. It had just taken time. A long time. But now, she was able not only to remember Phillip, but be glad for the time she’d had with him.
They’d met and married in six mad months when she’d been but eighteen. Phillip hadn’t been much older, so they’d practically grown up together. Perhaps that had been part of their friendship, their love. Whatever it had been, she missed that closeness. The pure loveliness of looking across the breakfast table at the person on the other side and knowing she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Mother gestured to the tea tray sitting by the fire. “Prudence, you returned just in time. Mrs. Fieldings just brought tea.”
Mrs. Fieldings was their housekeeper, and a sterner, more dour woman did not exist. Still, she had a magical touch when it came to pastries, which was evinced by the plate sitting with the teapot. Every pastry was golden and fluffy, glistening with honey coating, the room rich with the scent of warm butter and mouthwatering freshness.
Prudence finally found a smile. “Tea will be just the thing! I am famished.” She raised her brows at the doctor. “Will you be staying?”
He turned even redder, glancing wildly at Mother, then back at Prudence. “I—ah—I really must be on my way.”
Prudence wondered if the captain cared enough about anyone to blush. She tried to imagine him stuttering and could not. But then, she couldn’t imagine the captain being polite, either.
The man was a complete behemoth. Part of it was his size; he towered over everyone, his shoulders so broad they looked as if he could carry a ship as easily as command one. He wore his profession with every barked order, every impolite utterance.
What really bothered her was that he didn’t seem to care. He was perfectly happy being boorish. She remembered the way he’d looked at her when she’d first walked up to him in the garden—he’d stared at her head to foot, his gaze lingering in a very disturbing way. She shifted uncomfortably at the thought, her skin tingling as if he’d actually touched her.
“Um, Mrs. Thistlewaite, may I say you look well today?”
Usually Prudence found the doctor’s disjointed and milquetoast utterances rather irksome, but after spending twenty minutes with an oaf like the captain, she decided she rather liked the doctor’s nonthreatening presence. “You are too kind! I hope you are staying for tea. It’s so cold outside.”
He glanced regretfully at the clock on the mantel and shook his head. “Was just telling your mother I couldn’t remain a moment longer. I wish I could, but— patients, you know.”
Mother rushed forward. “Surely they would understand! I thought you’d stay long enough to have tea. At least one cup.”
“Perhaps next time.” He bowed to Prudence, meeting her gaze with a look of entreaty.
She immediately smiled. “Of course you must be on your way. Perhaps you will return another time and visit longer.”
His smile was blinding. “That would be lovely. Mrs. Crumpton. Mrs. Thistlewaite.” He bowed to both of them. “It was a pleasure.”
“And you.” Prudence dipped a curtsy, her gaze sliding to the tea tray. Her stomach rumbled so loudly she was certain the doctor had to have heard it.
He didn’t seem to notice, though, for he bowed again to her, then took Mother’s hand for a brief moment before leaving.
“Well!” Mother said as the door closed behind him.
“Well, indeed.” Prudence was already at the tea tray. “Mrs. Fieldings outdid herself yet again.” She carried the tray to the small table before the settee and poured two cups of tea. “I wonder what brought the doctor.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mother said, placing pastries on two plates and handing one to Prudence. Mother’s bright green gaze fixed steadily on Prudence. “You could at least have asked the doctor to dinner.”
Prudence took a bite of pastry. “I didn’t want Dr. Barrow to come to dinner. He is always ill at ease and it makes conversation so difficult.”
“He’s a doctor. Surely that has some merit.”
“Indeed it does. If I feel ill for eating too many of these delicious pastries, I shall call on him immediately.”
Mother sighed. “I don’t know what I am to do with you.”
“Nothing.” Prudence finished her pastry and wiped her hands on her napkin. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”
“So I see.” Mother took a sip of tea. “How was your visit with the captain?”
“It was horrid. The captain did everything but toss me out onto my ear.” Had the man had his way, Prudence had no doubt she’d have been tossed out on something far more ignominious than her ear.
Mother’s face fell. “That is too bad. I had hoped—” She frowned at Prudence. “Were you polite?”
“Of course I was! How can you ask that?”
“Sometimes—just sometimes, mind you—I’ve noticed you have a tendency to let your temper override your good sense.”
“Mother!”
“I’m sorry but it’s true.”
“I was very polite. It was the captain who displayed such a ferocious temper. In fact, he has such ill feelings about females in general that he said he wished our attempt to establish a seminary may fail. The man is a horrid, selfish person.”
“Perhaps you just caught him at a bad time,” Mother said cautiously. “He is a war hero, you know. Lucy has been talking to one of his men.”
“Mother, you should not gossip with the upstairs maid.”
“But she knows all about the captain! How else would we have discovered he is a war hero?”
“We still don’t know if he is a war hero. All we know is that one of the captain’s men told Lucy the man was a war hero. That is not quite the same thing.”
Mother sighed. “You are far too young to be so jaded.”
“And you are far too old to be so naive, though I must say you don’t look a year over forty. I hope I shall age so gracefully.”
Mother’s smile broke forth like the sun over the ocean. “You really think I look but forty?”
“I begin to think perhaps Dr. Barrow is coming to visit you and not me.”
That won a full chuckle and Mother settled in to enjoy her tea.
Prudence finished her second pastry. She had been furious when she’d left the captain, but sitting here now, before the fire, sipping a nice cup of tea with lots of sugar and extra cream, made her irritation disappear like smoke before a gentle breeze.
She glanced around their cottage with a deep feeling of satisfaction. It was warm and cozy here in the sitting room, the settee and drapes a delightful red color. Flowered pillows and a thick Aubusson carpet on which sat a matching set of cherry wood chairs filled the room with warmth and color. “Phillip would have liked this room.”
Mother paused in taking a sip of tea, her eyes darkening momentarily. “Oh, Prudence. I’m so sorry. What made you think of him?”
“I always think of him,” Prudence said with a sigh.
“I know.” Mother’s eyes filled as she reached over and patted Prudence’s hand. “Prudence, I wish sometimes that— Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“What? You wish I didn’t remember Phillip?”
“Oh no, dear! I would never wish that. I just wish you’d find someone else. You deserve to be happy.”
Prudence took a satisfying sip of tea. “I am happy. Very. Except for the sheep problem.”
“It is most vexing,” Mother replied, sending a side glance at Prudence. “I wonder how they are getting past the gate.”
“However they are doing it, the captain flatly refuses to pen up his sheep. The man is a nuisance.”
“Do you really think so?”
Prudence put down her cup, the bowl rattling against the saucer. “Mother, the man not only refused to pen up his sheep, but he threatened to train his dogs to herd those infernal animals onto our land unless we stopped pestering him about it!”
“Goodness,” Mother said, looking rather miserable. “Your interview did not go well at all.”
“No, it did not. But I am not finished with the captain.”
Mother brightened. “Oh?”
“No. I will find a way to make him listen to us. See if I don’t.”
Mother waved her pastry in the air, her eyes sparkling indignantly. “That foolish sheep, trudging through the new hedgerow and eating all the mint! The nerve of it!”
Prudence toyed with the handle of her cup. “How do those sheep get over that fence?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? I wonder if they have found a way to undo the latch.”
“And latch it back? I don’t think so.” Perhaps she’d go to the village in the morning and make some inquiries of the herding laws. She knew the perfect depth to curtsy to a princess, a duchess, a countess, and a viscountess. But she knew absolutely nothing about livestock.
“If you keep scowling like that, you will get lines in your brow.” Mother’s gentle voice held a touch of exasperation. “What did that man say to so upset you?”
Prudence picked up her teacup, absently staring into it. The captain had not said anything she hadn’t expected. Not really. It was more the way he’d looked at her; in a way that had made her feel painfully aware of herself. In the same way Phillip had looked at her, only… the captain’s look had burned, simmered inside of her. She’d never felt that with Phillip.
“Prudence?”
She looked up to find Mother staring at her, brows raised. Heat touched Prudence’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mother. I was just thinking about the captain. He was rude and it made me angry.” Which was true. Perhaps that was what she needed to focus on—how mad the man had made her. Yes, that was good. Prudence set her cup back on the tray. “Mother, I have had it with the captain’s lackadaisical manner of watching after his livestock. If he will not tend to them, then I will. Only I will use a spit over a hot fire and mint sauce.”
“Prudence! You cannot go about threatening to cook another person’s sheep.”
“Mother, we are now in the wilds of Devon. London rules do not apply. Let me deal with the sheep; you tend to starting our school.” Prudence straightened her shoulders. Yes. She’d deal with the captain in her own fashion. “Mother, have you heard anything from your friend, Lady Margaret? She promised her daughter would be our first student.”
Mother’s expression darkened. “I meant to tell you…”
Prudence’s heart sank. “She said no.”
“I’m certain she didn’t mean to make promises she didn’t intend to keep. Something very grave must have prompted her to— Well, here. Read it for yourself.” She pushed her hand into the pocket hidden in her morning dress and handed a very small note to Prudence.
“My, how Lady Margaret does go on and on,” Prudence said dryly as she opened the painfully short note. “She never meant to send Julia, did she?”
“I’m sure she did! But Lady Chisworth’s Academy is quite selective, and I’m sure if I was in the same position and you had been accepted there that I—”
“You would not have disappointed a friend you’d known since you were six, no matter how select Lady Chisworth’s Academy might be.”
Mother sighed, a wistful expression on her face. “No. I don’t suppose I would.”
“Nor would you disappoint a friend who had come to your aid every time one of your numerous children caught the slightest complaint. Why, when I think of all the times you’ve rushed to Lady Margaret’s side to help her nurse those brats of hers through God knows how many illnesses—”
“Prudence! You shouldn’t say such things.”
Prudence sighed. “You’re right and I am sorry. It just makes me angry when people take advantage of you. We bought this cottage so you could make a seminary. All we need are a few well-placed students and you would be set. I really thought your friends meant their promises to assist you.”
Mother’s shoulders sagged dispiritedly. “I did, too. Not only has Lady Margaret led me astray, but Lady Caroline has, as well. It seems as if none of them was ever truly my friend.”
Prudence reached over the small table and took Mother’s hand in her own. “I am sorry things are not turning out as we’d hoped.”
Mother managed a smile. “Yes, well, I refuse to let it bother me. We’ll find a way to launch our school.”
“I know we will. We simply must think. Who else of our acquaintance has a seminary-aged daughter?”
They were silent for a long time, both mentally going through their various acquaintances. It wasn’t easy, as they’d lost so many supposed friends when Phillip’s business had fallen and the scandal had occurred. Prudence’s throat tightened at the memory of those dark weeks.
Mother straightened. “Prudence! I know just the thing! I believe I shall write a letter to my old friend, Lady Boswell.”
“Lady Boswell? From Scotland? The one who sends us those horrid, hard Christmas cakes every year? I didn’t think she had any children.”
“No, but she has more than twenty nieces. Last year at the Daringham breakfast I distinctly remember hearing her lament how she’d determined to pay for all of their educations since her brothers had no funds to speak of. Whatever you might say about Lady Boswell’s rather irregular way of doing things, she is a strong proponent of women having an education.”
“Twenty nieces. Mother, do you think… ? Perhaps if we gave her a special price—”
“Exactly! She’s as thrifty as she is tall. I believe we might fill our five slots almost immediately.”
Prudence clasped Mother’s hands. “That is marvelous! I do hope— We must make certain the repairs on the cottage are done quickly. You can teach the girls comportment and dancing and all sorts of accomplished things, and I can teach them gardening and drawing and philosophy and Greek and—”
“But first we must resolve the sheep issue. We simply cannot have those animals wandering all over our garden. What if one bit a student? Perhaps you should speak to the captain again, only this time, pray use a more gentle tone.”
“He leaves me with no choice. I’ve asked him repeatedly to do something about those blasted sheep—”
“Prudence!” Mother’s voice edged with soft disapproval.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I have asked him and asked him and he does nothing more than shoo me away like some sort of buzzing insect.”
“That’s no reason to lower your standards of speaking. As I’ve told you often enough, a woman is judged as much by—”
“—her speech as by her deeds. I know, I know. I don’t mean to be so indiscreet, but that man raises my ire.”
“Hm. You know, Prudence… perhaps there is something to your irritation.”
Prudence looked suspiciously at her mother. “Oh?”
“There must be something about the captain that attracts you if he’s able to raise your temper so.”
“Nonsense. I am often angry with men I don’t know.”
“When?”
“Whenever I read the Morning Post. There are several contributors—all male, I might add—whom I do not care one snap of my fingers for. Every time they dip their pen into the ink pot, steam begins to rise from my ears. They express no one’s opinion but their own, yet presuppose they are speaking for the masses. I have no time for such worthless conceit.”
Mother’s lips quirked into a smile. “That’s not anger. That’s irritation.”
“Well, it feels like anger to me.”
Mother gave Prudence’s hand another squeeze, and picked up her own teacup. Her eyes smiled over the rim at Prudence. “Don’t look so grim, dear. Everything will work out. And if it doesn’t, you can always marry the doctor.”
That would be just lovely, Prudence thought glumly. Marriage to the doctor would be about as thrilling as napping during an opera.
Whatever happened, she’d win this war with the captain. Win it and help Mother establish a successful school, too. Then she’d see who had the last laugh. The captain would see that she’d not yet begun to fight.

10-01-08, 05:52 PM

المشاركة رقم: 12

المعلومات
الكاتب:	darla
اللقب:	سندريلا ليلاس

البيانات
التسجيل:	Aug 2006
العضوية:	11023
المشاركات:	5,556
الجنس	أنثى
معدل التقييم:
نقاط التقييم:	758

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مدونتي

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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 4

The First Meeting with your employer is vastly important. Here, you must set the tone of your future relationship. This is a delicate maneuver as too much familiarity breeds contempt while too little begets a disturbing tendency for said employer to run roughshod over one. Take a stand on important issues, but do so in a discreet manner that allows your master to retain his pride. And you, yours.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Tristan leaned his head against the high back of his favorite chair, savoring the burning warmth of his brandy. He shifted slightly, wincing as he did so. His damned leg ached deeply, as if the very bones were grinding against one another.
He forced his mind elsewhere, away from the pain, to the carriages even now climbing the cliff road. His first thought had been that it might be his father. But that simply could not be. The man had never made the slightest attempt to contact him; why would the bloody fool do so now?
Not that it mattered. There would be no welcome for the earl in Tristan’s life. Not now. Not anymore.
He was through with wishing. The time to believe in knights in shining armor and happily ever after had died years ago when Tristan had been forced aboard that damned ship. It was the one home truth life had taught him—if he wanted something good in his life, it was up to him and no one else to make it happen.
His gaze drifted to the terrace doors that lined one wall. He loved this room, had had it built to look as much like his cabin aboard the Victory as possible. It held the same furnishings with the exception of his bunk. At night, when he could sleep, he occupied the large corner room upstairs, the only chamber not filled to overflowing with his past shipmates.
He sighed, looking into his glass. When he’d been injured and had finally realized that he was no more for the sea, he’d come here to hide. To lick his wounds and wait for death. He’d had no greater purpose than that.
But something had happened. After he’d arrived, Stevens had come. The first mate had been wounded at Trafalgar as well. Given a tiny pension and set on land, he’d had nowhere to go.
So, Stevens had gone to his former captain. He’d sent no word of his imminent arrival, and indeed, Tristan, sunk in a three-month drunk, had been vaguely surprised, but also relieved. At least he wouldn’t die alone.
Stevens was but the first arrival at the cottage by the sea. One by one, the wounded came to visit… and then stay. Now, almost every room in the cottage housed three or four, and sometimes more, men. Stevens ran it all like a ship, even setting rotating dinner bells so the galley wasn’t overrun at any time.
For Tristan, the nearness of his former shipmates was a blessing. They gave him a purpose. The only problem was, his rather meager pension was not enough to put food on the table and pay the doctor’s bills. He’d been fortunate in his service and had put away some small amounts for investments. Those had paid and paid well. But with the constant drain, Tristan knew it was only a matter of time before he had to close the doors of his little house.
His sprightly neighbor would certainly like that. Especially if he took his sheep with him. Tristan almost chuckled at the memory of the lady’s outraged expression when he’d smoked his pipe in front of her. She was hot at hand, that one. Sparkling and fiery, like tinder to a match. He’d rather enjoyed this morning’s little exercise. It had momentarily chased away the cobwebs of his existence. He wondered what she’d do if he removed her cloak the next time she visited.
A sharp rap sounded and Stevens stuck his head into the room. “Cap’n?”
Tristan, deprived of such a pleasant daydream as his neighbor unfurling her charms, cast a surly eye toward his first mate. “Aye?”
Stevens entered the room, his cap clasped between his hands. “Sorry t’bother ye, but do ye remember that coach and t’other carts we saw humpin’ up the cliff road?”
The coach. He’d allowed himself to forget it, but all of his earlier thoughts returned. Tristan’s heart chilled, and every last vestige of brandy evaporated from his mind, leaving him with crystalline clarity. “They’ve arrived.”
“Aye. There’s a crew of them, but only two come to the door. A tall, slender fellow and a short, dumpy one. ‘Tis the tall one as gives me the shivers.” Stevens glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice to say, “He’s a mite bossy.”
“Tell him to go the hell away,” Tristan said harshly.
Stevens kneaded his cap. “I would, Cap’n. In fact, I done tol’ them ye were not here, but the one man looked down his nose at me and… well…” The cap was so twisted that Tristan wondered if it could ever be used again. “I hates to say this,” Stevens finally burst out, “perhaps ye should see this bloke.”
“No.”
Stevens didn’t look very convinced. “But—”
“I know these men. They work for the earl of Rochester, don’t they?”
“Well, yes. In a manner of speakin’, they do. But—”
“I want nothing to do with them.”
“But—”
“That is an order, Stevens. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir.” The first mate sighed heavily. “I tol‘ them ye’d not see them, I did.”
“Then tell them again.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” With a shake of his head, Stevens left.
Tristan was afforded an entire two minutes of peace before a knock once again sounded at the door. It opened, only this time it was not Stevens but a stranger who walked in.
Tall and thin, with a patrician face and dark hair touched with white, the man carried himself like a peer to the realm. His blue eyes surveyed Tristan from head to toe.
Tristan scowled, refusing to rise. “Who the hell are you?”
Another man peered around the first one, this one short and squat with wrinkled clothing and clutching a satchel as if afraid someone might attack him and remove it from his arms by force.
The thin man bowed. “My lord, allow me to introduce myself. I am Reeves. The butler for—”
“Let me save you some trouble; I want nothing to do with Rochester. To me, the earl is dead.”
The plump man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but— my lord, I am Mr. Dunstead, the solicitor, and—”
“I am not a lord.”
“Ah,” the man called Reeves interjected smoothly. “But you are. I am indeed the butler for the late earl of Rochester. My lord, I regret to inform you that your father is dead.”
Tristan’s heart froze. The earl. Dead. Gone forever.
He found his gaze fixed on the tumbler in his hand, noting in a detached manner how the fire flickered through the heavy cut glass. He’d always known that this day would come, had always imagined the relief he’d feel when it finally arrived. He’d told himself that he was looking forward to it, that with his father’s death, he would find some of the peace that had been denied him, the life that had been stolen from him. Perhaps even the brother he’d lost.
The thought of Christian made his hand tighten painfully about the glass. He forced himself to loosen his grip. Don’t think about it.
Instead, he’d think about the loss of the man he’d never known. The man who’d left him without recourse. Some emotion sifted deep within him. It took him a moment to recognize it—it was grief. A deep, inalienable sadness. Not for the man himself, of course; Tristan had barely known him. But a sense of loss for what would never, ever be. It was as if some small part of him was still the child in that tavern room, waiting for his father to come. Waiting for some sign he was loved.
“My lord?” The words were spoken low, with respect. “We are very sorry.”
Tristan looked up to find both men regarding him with something akin to pity on their faces. Tristan slammed the glass down on the table by his elbow. “Do not look at me like that! Why did you come to tell me such a worthless piece of information? I cannot be the new earl. The bastard did not so much as acknowledge me. How could I have inherited the title?”
The little man, Dunstead, blinked behind his spectacles. “Because… oh dear. This is quite complicated, but your father—”
“Do not call that arrogant ass my father. He was not before, nor will he ever be.”
Reeves cleared his throat. “My lord, I understand why you are upset. But you should know that I was with his lordship at the end. He was adamant you were to be the next earl.”
“Why? Because he had no other sons?”
A pained look crossed Reeves’s face. “That is neither here nor there. You are the earl. He went to quite a bit of trouble to make certain you would be.”
Tristan sat back in his chair. “You don’t seem to understand. My brother and I were born on the wrong side of the blanket. Much as I loved my mother, she was sometimes too generous in her trust. She thought he would marry her, but he did not. So… I cannot become the new earl.”
“Ah, but apparently the earl had an epiphany on his deathbed. He suddenly remembered that he had, in fact, married your mother. He even has a member of the church willing to testify to that fact.”
Tristan’s smile was mirthless. “He did not go to all of this trouble because he loved me so much. If he wanted an heir so badly, why didn’t he just marry and have his bloody heir?”
“He tried to,” Reeves said. “He and the duchess had no children.”
Dunstead nodded briskly. “You are his eldest child. It is only right that you take your father’s place.”
A bitter laugh broke from Tristan’s throat. “My father’s place—that is too amusing for words.”
The butler and the solicitor exchanged glances. Mr. Dunstead set his satchel on the desk. “Perhaps if you saw the will yourself. I am supposed to read it to you but if you’d like—”
“Leave it there.”
“My lord?”
“Put it on the desk and then leave,” Tristan said, reaching for his cane and gaining his feet. “I don’t want you here.”
“B—but, my lord! I must explain the stipulations.”
“Stipulations?”
“Yes. You have inherited the title. However, to gain the fortune, the trustees must approve you as…” The solicitor glanced helplessly at Reeves.
The butler met Tristan’s gaze. “The late earl wished to make certain that the next occupant of Rochester House should be worthy of the name.”
Worthy? That bloody bastard never once bothered to own up to Tristan’s birthright, and then, on his deathbed, he had the gall to demand that Tristan be worthy? “I don’t want the bloody fortune. Nor the damned title. And he can take his damned house to hell with him, too.”
Reeves sighed. “He would have, my lord, had he been able. Trust me on that.”
“I won’t take a pence from that empty, shriveled old man.”
Mr. Dunstead blinked, his eyes hideously large behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “Don’t— My lord! Do you realize— Do you know— It would be unheard of to—”
“What Mr. Dunstead is saying,” Reeves interjected smoothly, “is that it would be quite foolhardy to turn your back on twenty thousand pounds per annum.”
Tristan turned his head. “Did you say twenty?”
“Thousand.” Reeves raised his brows. “And Rochester House as well as the Rochester Townhouse in London, both of which are masterful edifices and fully furnished in a most elegant style.”
Dunstead nodded. “They come with trained staff, too. All you’d need to do is”—he made a sweeping gesture with his arm—“move in. Once, of course, you’ve garnered the approval of the trustees.”
Twenty thousand pounds. The things he could do with that sum. He could move away from the cottage— or better yet, build a number of them for the men. He could also hire a doctor just to stay here, and minister to them all. Then, when that was done, he could perhaps… What would he do? There were so many possibilities, so many things he had always wanted to accomplish that his mind would not settle on one.
Of course, that was if he gained the “approval” of the trustees. He glanced at the solicitor. “Who are these trustees?”
“Contemporaries of your father’s. Well versed in comportment, manners, dress—everything a gentleman should know.”
“Bloody hell, I am to become a popinjay and then let a group of warbling fools judge me?”
Dunstead pushed his glasses up on his nose, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Ah. Well. I suppose if you wish to look at it that way—”
“I will not do it!” It was inconceivable. Even from the grave, his father was trying to make Tristan feel like less. His jaw tightened. “No. I won’t have it. None of it. Now be gone, both of you.”
Dunstead huffed his astonishment and then began to collect his papers, but Reeves did not move. He merely sighed. “How sad. I suppose we shall just have to find Lord Westerville then.”
“Who is that?”
“Your brother, Christian.”
Tristan paused, his gaze riveted on the butler. “Christian?”
“If you fail to meet the criteria for the fortune, it goes to your brother, Viscount Westerville.”
Dunstead locked his satchel. “The will is on your desk, should you decide to read it.”
“You cannot find my brother,” Tristan said, ignoring the solicitor all together. “I’ve tried for years and have been unable to discover even a trace of him.”
“Perhaps you did not look in the right location.”
Tristan took a hasty step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Do you know where he is?”
Reeves smiled. “We found you, did we not?”
Dunstead pushed his spectacles back in place. “We must leave, Mr. Reeves. It’s getting dark and we have a long way to go.”
Reeves glanced at the terrace doors. “It’s already too late to take the coaches and wagons down that treacherous road. Besides, the horses are spent, and—” He looked at Tristan. “I wonder… My lord, would you allow us to stay for a day or two? We’ve traveled far and are a bit weary. Our horses need rest, especially after pulling so much weight up that horrid road.”
If Reeves knew how to locate his brother, then Tristan would be foolish to let the man out of his sight. “Stay. I am afraid I don’t have much room—”
“We will make do in the stables,” Reeves said, as if anticipating just such a suggestion.
“The stables?” Mr. Dunstead blinked. “But…how—”
“We will do very well,” Reeves said smoothly. He bowed to Tristan. “Thank you for your consideration. Once the horses are rested, we will, of course, be on our way.”
“But—” Dunstead said.
Reeves took the solicitor by the shoulders and turned him toward the door. “Lord Rochester, thank you! I hope to speak to you again soon, once you’ve had time to digest the new things in your life.” With that, the butler steered the solicitor into the hallway and closed the door softly behind him.
Tristan stood staring at the closed door for the longest time, scattered thoughts raging through him. His father, dead. His brother, perhaps found. A fortune to be won. And a title, all his. Lord Tristan Llevanth, Earl of Rochester.
What a horrible, horrible joke.
If he was to digest all of that, it would take an entire bottle of brandy. Or ten. Shaking his head, he sank back into his chair, reclaimed his glass and took a long gulp. He was an earl. For some reason, he wondered what his starched-skirted neighbor would think of that. Would she be impressed? Or merely demand yet again that he keep his sheep out of her garden?
Lifting his glass in her general direction, he silently toasted her. Not only was she delectable, but she was brimming with good sense—he could almost smell it on her. That was the kind of woman one avoided at all costs; the marrying kind.
Sighing, he laid his head against the back of the chair. Truthfully, he’d trade his earldom for one night in the lady’s bed. One long, passion-filled night, filled with scented skin, and the silk of her hair…
The thought made him shift uneasily in his chair. Damnation. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He was an earl. A bloody earl. An earl with a bad leg and a cottage filled with broken sailors. What good was the title without the funds?
Even from the grave, his father still had the power to irk him. Teeth clenched, Tristan tried to focus on Christian. On hope. Thoughts swirled round and round as Tristan drank his way through the bottle, the hours slowly passing. The sun would be breaking over the horizon before he managed to calm his thoughts enough to stumble to bed. But even then, one distinct image lingered behind his alcohol-fogged eyelids; that of his lovely neighbor, curtsying low, displaying her bosom for his earl-like approval.
It left him with one thought before he sank into a deep sleep… Maybe being an earl wouldn’t be such a hardship, after all.

10-01-08, 05:55 PM

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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 5

A proper butler never, ever interferes with his master’s Personal Matters. Unless, of course, his efforts will make his master’s life better in some measure. For some, this can justify a large amount of interference, indeed.

A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

“You, sir, will remove your sheep from my garden,” Prudence demanded, her voice a bit shivery, as if she was cold. She found that odd, to be cold AND dreaming.
The captain turned, apparently unaware that he was but a figment of Prudence’s slumber. He was standing on the bluff, as he’d been the other day, the wind whipping his cloak about him, his broad chest displayed by a thin white shirt open at the neck, his black breeches tight about his thick, muscled legs.
Prudence had to fight for breath. This was the best dream she’d ever had. His open shirt was scandalous enough, but the tight cut of his breeches was quite distracting. Very distracting. So distracting that—
He was suddenly before her, his warm hands on her shoulders. He looked deeply into her eyes. “I will do anything you desire, my sweet. So long as you give me one kiss.”
“A kiss? I could not—” Well, she could, she supposed. When dreaming, one was allowed to do things one might not in Real Life. “Very well. One kiss. But only one, so—”
He clasped his arms about her, bent her back, and captured her mouth with his. Even in her dream, he was impatient, masculine, and forward. Prudence shuddered and shivered, moaning with the heat that blossomed at his touch, at the feel of his warm mouth on hers, at the sensual shiver of his tongue slipping past her lips.
How could she experience such feelings in a simple dream? How could she truly feel the texture of his skin, smell the freshness of his linen, taste the tang of salt on his lips? How was it that she—
A harsh knock broke through her muddled slumber. Prudence scrunched her eyes more tightly closed and pulled her pillow closer, desperately hanging on to the image of the captain, his handsome face bent over hers, his mouth just inches from her own—
The harsh knock sounded again, but this time the door opened and Mrs. Fieldings said in her usual flat tone, “Rise, madam. The cock’s done crowed.”
Prudence groaned as the last image of the captain dissipated into wakefulness. She rolled onto her stomach, hugging her pillow even tighter.
Mrs. Fieldings threw open the curtains, the light streaming into the room.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Prudence said, pulling the covers over her head, the air brisk with morning chill.
Mrs. Fieldings calmly peeled back the covers. “Slothfulness doth not put bread upon the table.”
Prudence hated homilies, especially before breakfast. She opened her eyes to small slits. “Yes, well, not getting enough sleep can—it can, ah, make a fish grumpy.” There. Not quite as pithy as Mrs. Fieldings’s home truth, but it would do.
The housekeeper sniffed. “You made that up.”
“I did not,” Prudence said as loftily as she could while still hidden beneath the covers, her eyes barely open. “I heard it from, um, the captain’s men.”
“Those wastrels. ‘Tis time you arose, madam. The early bird gets the worm.”
Blast it! This was war. Forcing the last vestiges of sleep aside, Prudence sat up. “Last in, first out.”
Mrs. Fieldings’s sparse countenance tightened. “Lazy hands make merry mischief.”
“Two in the hand are worth—oh bother!” Prudence swung her legs out of bed, stretching mightily. She mumbled, “I don’t know why I even try. You beat me every time.”
A faint smirk touched the dour housekeeper’s mouth. “Breakfast is ready. Your mother is already in the dining room.” She poured some fresh water into the china bowl on the washstand, placed a clean hand towel beside it, and left.
Prudence found her slippers and rammed her feet into them, then made her way to the bowl. She washed her face and hands, scrubbing hard at her lips where they still tingled as if the kisses had been real. She looked in the mirror and found herself smiling. It had been a long time since she’d dreamed of anyone other than Phillip. “It’s about time,” she told herself.
Not, of course, that the captain was the sort of man for a romance. He was dark, dangerous, and unruly. Still, he was pleasant to dream about. That was all some men were good for.
Smiling at her own nonsense, she took off her night rail, unbraided her hair and ran a comb through it, then pinned the long locks up on her head. Her hair was unfashionably long, the thick strands brushing the tops of her hips. She supposed she should have it cut, but somehow, she never did.
The sun shone warmly into the room, belying the chilled wind that rattled the shutters. Prudence stood in the warming beam and pulled a round gown of pink muslin over her head and tied it securely.
Odd that she’d awoken, dreaming of the captain. And not just thinking about him, but dreaming about him… about his eyes, that odd green color and intense. About the shape of his lips when he’d flashed that one swift smile that had sent her senses reeling. About how those very lips had covered hers and delivered the most passionate, unique kiss she’d ever—
She covered her face and shivered. Before now, she’d always thought Phillip’s kiss had been wonderful, gentle and tender, just like him. Her chest tightened at the thought. How could she compare a dream kiss from a man like the captain—a kiss that held less meaning than a scrap of torn paper—to a kiss from Phillip, who had been her husband and best friend?
Still… now that she thought about it, Phillip had never kissed her like the kiss in her dreams, with such passion and focus. Of course, that was probably because of the type of man the captain was. When she was with him, she felt as if his entire energy was directed at her and no one else. As if only she and he existed in that moment, even if he was irked with her about his sheep. Phillip had never made her feel that way, and yet… she had loved Phillip. Dearly.
It was a sign that the feelings she had for the captain were simple lust.
Heavens! She was losing her mind. Thinking was obviously not a good thing to engage in before breakfast. Hunger was warping her usual calm logic. Before she tackled weighty thoughts—or at least thoughts that had anything to do with one very masculine, very irritating sea captain and his wayward sheep, she’d have a nice breakfast and some tea. Yes, that was what she needed.
And after that… why, after that, she’d take care not to think about him again. Not even once. Yes, that was what she’d do. Besides, she had dozens of things to see to today as it was. She left her room and ran lightly down the stairs, trailing her fingertips on the smooth worn wood.
It was warmer downstairs. Mother was sitting at the head of the dining-room table, listlessly plucking at the edge of her napkin when Prudence came in.
“Good morning!” Prudence bent and kissed her mother’s cheek, then took the seat beside her. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I couldn’t wake up this morning.”
Mrs. Fieldings entered the room and went to the sideboard, lifting the cover off two plates. “Time waits for no man.”
Prudence sighed. “I think we’ve had enough homilies for one day.”
Mrs. Fieldings sniffed. She brought the plates to the table and set them before Prudence and her mother with a decided thunk, then marched from the room.
“Oh dear!” Mother said, looking after the housekeeper. “She is certainly in a mood.”
Prudence buttered her toast and spread a healthy amount of marmalade over it. “We have a lot to do today. We have to finish the curtains for the back two bedchambers, to get them ready for our boarders.”
“That is going to take some time.”
“We should be able to finish one set today if we both work on it. Once that’s done, we must see to getting the barn in more presentable shape. We will eventually need to get another horse besides Elmira.”
“I hope we will be able to afford one. I quite hate seeing poor old Elmira harnessed to the carriage. She tires so quickly.”
“We will be able to afford it. I’m certain we will. Mother, I have been thinking. Perhaps our school should specialize in something.”
Mother poured cream into her cup. “Goodness, you are full of ideas this morning! You must have slept very well indeed.”
Somehow, Prudence’s dream had revitalized her in some way. She shrugged. “I just want to help.”
“Oh, you are, dear! I couldn’t do anything without you. What is your idea?”
“The other seminaries for girls specialize in something. Mrs. Ashton’s Select Seminary believes theatrical productions produce a becoming confidence and they perform several tasteful plays each term. Lady Barkstow’s Académie for Ladies has its own horse trainer. Every girl is given a horse on arriving, and the school promises that they will all be capital horsewomen by the time they leave.”
“Horses?” Mother put down her fork. “That sounds rather expensive.”
“I wasn’t suggesting we do the same thing as the other schools,” Prudence said quickly. “But we must find our own specialty so we can convince good families to bring their daughters here and not elsewhere. We could provide a combination of the gentler arts and some good, healthy fresh air activities. We are in the countryside, so perhaps we can turn that to our advantage.”
Mother sighed a little. “Prudence, I wish we weren’t reduced to this. I love the idea of a school, but I hate that we have to do it. That takes so much of the enjoyment out of it.”
Prudence pushed herself from the table. “Mother, I am sorry about Phillip’s—”
Mother put her hand over Prudence’s. “Stop. He didn’t mean to leave things in such a state.”
“It’s not only the money, but the humiliation of—” Prudence pressed her lips together. “All those people trusted him. He should have realized he was in over his head and not made so many promises.”
“He was overly optimistic, perhaps. But what he did was not criminal. There should have never been so many people pressing him for funds. And then, to cut us socially—” Mother looked down at her plate. “I know that was difficult for you.”
“For both of us. I thought some of those women were my friends, but they weren’t.” No, her supposed “friends” had believed the lies published in the papers. That Phillip had stolen money from his investors, that she had enticed men to invest. It was horrid and tawdry, and still, after three years, left a horrid taste in her mouth. Worse had been the strain on Phillip of those ugly rumors. He’d grown pale and tense. And then ill. He’d just seemed to waste away before her very eyes.
She took a sip of tea to stop the tightness from building in her throat. “There is nothing to be gained in reliving the past. Besides—”
A loud bleating filled the air. Mother and Prudence looked at each other. The bleating came again, louder and much closer this time.
Mother jumped to her feet and ran to the window, almost pressing her nose to the pane of glass. “Prudence! It’s that same sheep! Eating the tops off all of the winter kelp.”
“Not the winter kelp!” Prudence tossed her knife and fork to the table. “That does it! I am going to the captain’s cottage, only this time—” What could she do? Her mind raced, rejecting plan after plan. Finally, one clear thought danced before her. “I know what I’ll do. Mother, I will take that silly sheep to him! Let him put up with it!”
Mother blinked. “But—”
Prudence was already out the door. Mother rushed to follow. “Prudence, wait! Don’t go while you are in a dither! You’ll just say something foolish. Finish breakfast, at least.” Mother caught Prudence’s arm and halted her. “You’ll be calmer. You might even have some time to do something with your hair. And while I like that gown, perhaps the blue one with the—”
“No.” Prudence pulled free, yanked her cape from the hook by the front door and slung it about her shoulders. “It’s time we spoke to the captain in his own language.”
“Oh dear!”
Prudence wrapped the muffler about her neck. “I am going to take the captain’s sheep right into his household for a change. See if he likes that!”
“Prudence, perhaps it would be better if you—”
But Prudence was already gone, her face set in determined lines. “Captain Llevanth,” she muttered as she marched out the door and toward the sound of the bleating, “ready or not, you are in for a very sheepish morning.”

Chapter 6

It is important for your master to command the respect of his peers and neighbors. Anything you can do to assist in this process, however painful it might be, will be to your eventual benefit. Unfair as it is, your service will be judged on his appearance. One gravy spot on his new waistcoat could lead to the loss of a great deal of respect on your part.

A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Prudence rapped a sharp, staccato knock upon the weathered door, her knuckles smarting through her glove. Overhead a lone seagull cried, the sound tossed eerily through the air. The wind whipped a bit colder against the door, stirred her skirts, puffing cold air about her stockinged ankles. Prudence shivered and pulled the collar of her cloak more tightly about her neck. Where was the blasted captain? No doubt he was inside, toasty warm beside a fire, and drinking heavily. She’d heard that sailors were wont to do such things.
Behind her came a loud bleat. She looked over her shoulder to the sheep that was standing docilely enough behind her, tied to her waist by her bright red muffler. “Quiet, Mrs. Fieldings!” For some reason, she’d had to call the sheep something, and somehow the housekeeper’s name had seemed appropriate. There was something about the sheep’s unamused look that reminded her forcibly of Mrs. Fieldings’s usual morning reproachful sternness.
The wind blew harder and Mrs. Fieldings reached out and nibbled on the edge of the muffler, showing her yellow teeth.
“Stop that!” Prudence told the animal. “Mother made that for me.”
Mrs. Fieldings did not look impressed. If anything, she nibbled more.
“Save it for the captain’s drapes.” Only the morning chill answered this sally. Prudence shivered and knocked again, even harder this time. Still no answer came, though the icy wind played and swirled and she began to feel the cold even more seriously. “Tare and hounds,” she muttered, reaching toward the door and this time, pounding her fist on the hard wood panel. “Where is everyone?”
The words had scarcely left her lips when the door burst open. But no tall and threatening sea captain glared down at her. Instead, Stevens peered out, blinking rapidly as if just waking. He was wearing a black broadcloth coat over a striped shirt, his hair covered by a kerchief.
He looked quite “pirately,” pausing mid-yawn when he recognized her. “By the seas, Madam! I thought ‘twas a dunner as come to demand the dibs, I did.”
So, the captain was in bad repair financially, was he? She shouldn’t have been surprised. “I am not a bill collector.”
“No, indeed ye aren’t, Mrs. Thistlewaite. Can I help ye?”
“I have come to see the captain.”
“Oh ho, ye have, have ye? Well, be that as it may, I cannot let ye in. I’m not one as to let a female come havy-cavy into the house without an invite, I ain’t.”
“I was invited.”
“By who, might I ask? Surely not the cap’n, for he’d no more let a female within the—” The round man’s face lit up. “Oh now! I know who invited ye! ‘Twas John Pewter, wasn’t it?”
“John—no. I don’t know who that is—”
Stevens held his hand well over his own head. “About this tall, and with yellow hair tied in a queue, bit of a gimp in his right leg?”
“I don’t—”
“I daresay he thought not to leave his name, but ‘tis no matter. I sent him to the tavern to find a wench, but if he found ye instead—”
“No one found me in a tavern!”
Stevens looked disappointed. “No?”
“No!”
“Oh well, then. Pity, though.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “The lads and me thought the cap’n needed some cheerin’ up and so we—” Something must have changed in her expression, for he suddenly reddened and stepped aside. “Never mind that! Just come in. ’Tis too cold to be quibbling over an invite.”
Warmth beckoned. Prudence took an eager step forward when a sharp yank on the muffler stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, yes! Wait.” She turned around, planted her heels, and pulled with all her might. Bit by bit, head bowed as she resisted every tug, Mrs. Fieldings the sheep walked through the door. The second she stepped over the threshold, some new panic hit her, for she looked around with wide eyes, bleated loudly, then turned, scrambling to get back outside.
Prudence held on with both hands.
Stevens yelped. “Gor!”
There was a loud clatter and two men came running around the corner. One was tall, with a gold ring through his ear, his head bald except for twin tufts of white hair over each ear. He was dressed in a dirty-looking coat over a long white night rail, boots on his feet. The other was short, round, and red-faced, his nose pierced with a gold hoop. He wore an improbably long black shirt over orange breeches.
The men saw the sheep attempting to escape and they immediately ran toward it. Footsteps sounded and three more men came running from another hallway, all of them as improbably pierced and dressed.
That was too much for Mrs. Fieldings. She bolted with renewed strength, yanking the muffler from Prudence’s hands and galloping madly away, the red muffler flying behind her.
“After her, men!” shouted Stephens.
The men all looked at Prudence.
She took a hasty step backward. “Not me! The sheep!”
“Aye!” Stevens snapped. “The sheep! The one wearin’ the muffler!”
Off they went, a jumble of clothing and effort, elbowing each other at the door and cursing loudly.
Prudence gasped when she saw one of them held a pistol, an evil-looking man with a scarred face and a worn blue coat.
Stevens must have seen it, too, for he yelled after the marauding herd, “Don’t ye be hurting the poor thing, either! ‘Tis the cap’n’s, ye know, and he might be wantin’ to save her for Michaelmas dinner!” He shut the door. “That was a lucky thing, bringin’ that sheep! Thank you very much!”
Prudence paused. “What do you mean, ‘thank you?’ ”
“Aye! ‘Twill keep the men busy fer hours. They’re always mopin’ and complainin’ how there’s naught to do. Now they can chase that sheep ‘til their noses fall off their faces.”
Wonderful. She’d brought that blasted sheep all the way from her house and Stevens was happy about it. Blast it all. She could only hope the captain was not so sanguine. “Do you think the men will catch the sheep?”
“Those nabbers? Lord love ye, missus! O’course they won’t catch it! They couldn’t find a reef on a pure sunny day with a stick, those men. Not that they’re not a good sort, fer they are. They just need a bit of direction, is all. And without me or the cap’n there to guide them, well… I daresay we won’t see some of ‘em fer hours. Maybe longer.”
“I hope they do not hurt the poor thing, though she’s stronger than you might think.”
“ ‘Tis a wonder ye got her here at all.” He turned and began walking down a narrow corridor. “Come along this way, missus. I’ll take ye to the cap’n.”
Prudence paused. Should she go? If she did, what would she say? Without the sheep, her purpose was rather… lost. Had she any sense, she’d leave.
She blinked after Stevens, noting with mounting interest the inside of the cottage. Larger than the one she and Mother had rented, it had far fewer windows and was rather dark. There were two doors into the small hallway, both of which were tightly closed. From beneath one, a thin slice of light appeared. She took a step forward, her gaze glued to the light.
Stevens planted himself before her. “Ye don’t want to go in there, madam.”
“Oh. No. Of course not.” She looked at the light. “What’s in there?”
“That’s where old Riley Neilson be laid up. He busted up his left hip, he did, during the last skirmish with the French. We’ve been tending him.”
“In the front room?”
“He can’t make it up the steps, he can’t. We use both front rooms as berths. Riley is in the portside with Taggart, Lewis, and Jacobson, whilst me, Toggle, and Toots MacGrady be in the starboard.”
“You live in the front rooms?”
“Aye.”
Goodness, what sort of house was this that men actually lived in the front parlor and the dining room, using them as bedchambers? “Which room is the captain’s?”
Stevens gestured down the dark hallway. “The library. He calls it his quarters, he does.”
She’d already taken two short steps in that direction, but now she stopped. “Does he… does he sleep in there as well?”
“At times. But he still has his chambers upstairs. We haven’t needed it yet, though if we get any more…” Stevens shook his head sadly. “We’re up at topsail now. Filled to the quarterdeck and beyond.”
“Filled…with sailors?”
“Aye, madam. All of us were at one time or another in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. We all served under the cap’n at Trafalgar.” Stevens beamed. “He’s a war hero, ye know. The captain says we all are.”
Prudence hadn’t believed the upstairs maid’s claims about the captain being a war hero of some sort, but now, looking at Stevens’s proud expression, she thought perhaps it was the truth. “That must have been quite exciting for you all.”
“Aye! Admiral Nelson was on our ship when—” A quiver passed over the old sailor’s face. Though he suppressed it quickly, his eyes were suddenly wet.
Prudence felt like the lowest heel. She cleared her throat. “How many of you are here?”
Stevens poked his thumbs into the sleeves of his waistcoat and squinted up at the ceiling. “Twenty-seven.”
“In this one house?”
“Well now, some come and some go.” A sad look crossed Stevens’s face. “ ‘Tis hard fer a sailor to weigh anchor fer long. There’s a restlessness that’s hard on the soul.”
“This is quite a large undertaking, then.”
“Ye don’t know the half of it. The cap’n feeds us and clothes us, he does. But he doesn’t give it to us fer nothing, which is good, as a man has to have his pride. All the men work, whenever there’s something as needs doin’.”
There was much more to the captain than she’d thought. Much, much more. “That is quite generous of him.”
“Indeed ‘tis.” The first mate scratched his chin, then gestured down the hallway. “This way if ye wish to speak to the cap’n.”
“Yes, please.” She was beginning to realize that behind the captain’s gruff and grim exterior was a heart of some sort. Of course, it was possible the man was merely turning the men to his own purpose… though she couldn’t really tell how.
Stevens wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Follow me, then. The cap’n is out walkin’, but ye can wait on him in his quarters.”
“Thank you,” she said, following the man down the hallway.
He went to the last door and threw it open, then stepped aside. “In with ye!”
The sudden spill of gray light hurt her eyes as she entered the room. One wall was hung with long French doors, the silvered skies outside framed by deep green curtains. Light, such as there was, poured into the room. “Much better,” she said approvingly. “This room is brighter.”
“Aye. ‘Tis like stepping onto the deck of a ship, isn’t it?” Stevens pointed to the large wingback chair that sat looking out over a small terrace and to the ocean cliff beyond. A book and a pipe rack told a tale of their own. “The cap’n likes to sit in here when the sun sets. I think he can pretend to be sailing the seas, meself.” A wistful note crept into Stevens’s voice. “I miss those days.”
“He pretends?” Somehow, Prudence didn’t think of the captain as a man given to make-believe.
A shadow crossed Stevens’s face, his blue eyes darkening. “Sometimes that’s all ye get, madam. Pretendin’.”
Prudence thought of how much she missed Phillip and how, in the days right after his death, to get through the difficult times, she’d pretend—just for an hour— that he was really just gone on a visit or a trip. That he would be back. Of course, he never came, and sometimes it made her all the sadder.
She thought of the captain and how he limped. “Will the captain ever sail again?”
“Nay, missus. Because of his leg. Can’t keep his footing on deck. Some captains, they would sail anyway, just tie themselves to the mast. But Cap’n says an unfit body in charge has led to many a failure and he’ll not be one of them. Always thinking of his men, he is.”
“I see. Where is he now?”
“I daresay he stopped by the barn.” Stevens’s face crinkled into a smile. “We’ve some visitors, we do. The cap’n sent them to the stables. I’ll see if’n I can find him. Perhaps ye should drop an anchor here whilst I fetch him.”
Prudence nodded. The man gave the room a last look, as if expecting the captain to suddenly appear, and then left.
As soon as the door closed, Prudence looked around, her gaze sweeping the room. Large paintings of ships being tossed about rough seas adorned the walls. She walked from picture to picture, taking in the blue, green and salty grays of the ocean swells.
She wandered more slowly, noting a brass instrument on a table, a myriad of other intriguing objects with it. She removed her gloves, laid them over the back of a chair with her cloak, and picked up the instrument, the cool metal pressing into her palm.
She knew so little about the captain really, other than the fact that he had a sheep that was capable of climbing over her fence. A sheep now running unchecked through the countryside, wearing her red muffler, a boatload of men chasing it.
Her lips twitched. That could be quite amusing to see. She replaced the brass… thing, whatever it was, her gaze sweeping the room. There, on a shelf by the fireplace, and somewhat above her head, was a small engraved cup. From where she stood, it looked as if it said THE VICTORY. She squinted and stood up on her tiptoes, trying to make out the exact etching, but she couldn’t. The light was too poor.
Could it be… The Victory had been the ship from which Admiral Nelson had led the Battle of Trafalgar. Surely Captain Llevanth had not been in charge of that ship.
The answer to a good many of her questions might well be on that cup. She stepped closer to the shelf and reached up on tiptoe, but her fingers barely grazed the outer edge. It was far too high. Glancing around, she found a chair. She would stand on it and then she could not only reach the shelf, but she would be able to see the cup up close and read the engraving completely.
She cast a cautious eye toward the doorway. No sound emanated from the darkened hallway. There’d been no rug lining the wood floor and the captain was unlikely to walk about on tiptoe, especially not with his limp, so she was certain she’d hear anyone approach.
Prudence dragged a straight-backed chair to below the shelf, grimacing a bit when the legs scraped the floor. Once she had the chair in place, she tiptoed to the hallway and peeked out the door. Nothing. A bit of breathlessness left her. She returned and nimbly hopped on the chair, reached up to the shelf and found the cup.

To commemorate the bravery of the Victory and the final stand of Admiral Nelson, to Captain Tristan Llevanth, who stood true, fast, and brave even while wounded.
With admiration,
from His Majesty,
King George III.

That was certainly something! She traced the lettering, the etching rough against her fingers. Had King George himself presented the award to the captain? How odd to think that the king had once had his fingers right where hers now were.
She replaced the award and, reaching even further back, teetering on her tiptoes, her fingers grazed the next award in line. This one was a large gold cross, outlined with blue enamel and set with a single jewel. A huge blue ribbon threaded through the large loop at the head of the cross, so it was apparently to be worn over a uniform of some type.
She frowned. She’d heard of the St. Christopher’s Cross, given to seamen and soldiers who’d exhibited unusual bravery in battle. Could this be one? Whatever it was, it was a beautiful piece and quite impressive. She smoothed her fingers over the cool metal, admiring the color even as she glanced at the remaining awards and medals.
The captain had been no coward when it came to wartime activities. That could be very useful information, she decided. She’d have to be careful not to appear too confrontational in her manner; he would take it as a challenge, something he apparently enjoyed.
She pursed her lips. She supposed she didn’t blame him. She rather enjoyed a good row now and again herself. She lifted up on her tiptoes to replace the cross—
“What are you doing?”
The words snapped through the dead silence, so deeply spoken and so close, that Prudence took a startled step back—a dangerous move for someone balanced on their toes on the seat of a wobbly chair. The cross gripped in her hands, she gasped deeply, wobbling a second on the edge of the chair.
And then she fell, tumbling back, back, back… right into the arms of the man she’d come to conquer.

10-01-08, 05:57 PM

المشاركة رقم: 14

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الكاتب:	darla
اللقب:	سندريلا ليلاس

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التسجيل:	Aug 2006
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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 7

It is a delicate thing, to always be right, especially when dealing with a man of breeding and, one would hope, some pride. A proper butler will know how to make it appear that all decisions are made by one’s master. Or at least, heartily approved by him even when they are not.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Moments before Prudence’s fall from the chair, Tristan had been standing in the courtyard, glaring at the barn. His father’s servants were in there and it felt wrong somehow. He wanted no reminders of that dark part of his life.
Something brushed his leg and he glanced down. “Ah, Winchester.” The cat purred loudly, pressing its orange-and-white face against Tristan’s boot. He leaned a bit more heavily against the gate, his cane resting against his thigh as he scooped up the waiting cat and absently scratched one of its rather ragged ears. “Easy,” Tristan murmured to the cat. “It’s uncharted territory to be certain. But we’ve been in worse weather. We’ll come about. See if we don’t.”
Winchester flicked a nervous ear, so Tristan gave the cat’s head a brisk scratch before setting him back on the ground.
“There ye be, Cap’n!” Stevens said, coming up at a run.
“Aye, here am I,” Tristan said, his gaze fastened on the wide oak barn doors. From behind the doors came a myriad of sounds, hammering and sawing and all sorts of noises. What the hell was that man Reeves up to?
“Cap’n, ye won’t believe this, but—” An especially loud racket made Stevens turn toward the barn. “What’s that?”
“God only knows, although I am about to find out.” He grasped the handle of his cane and pulled himself from his leaning position against the gate. “Stevens, I am beginning to believe that allowing Master Reeves and his entourage to rest in our barn for a day or two was an error.”
“I am thinkin’ the same thing meself, Cap’n. What do ye think he’s doin’ in there?”
“I don’t know. Other than request permission to clean it up a bit, he’s asked for nothing more. However, I think it’s time to find out.” Tristan made his way to the door. Just as he placed his hand on the large, rusty iron ring, a shift in the wind produced a most amazing smell.
Stevens lifted his nose to the air, inhaling noisily. “Gor, Cap’n,” he said in a reverent voice, his eyes half closing. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan said, puzzled. He swung open the door and stepped inside, halting in amazement.
The entire barn had been cleaned out; scrubbed from floor to rafter. All of the hay stores—what few there were—were neatly stacked against the far wall. The tackle and tack had been moved there as well, neatly hung on newly placed hooks. That left the majority of the barn empty. Or it would have been empty had someone not placed barrels at regular intervals with meticulously cut boards laid across them, end to end. The effect was a huge, table-like structure that ran the entire length of the edifice.
Reeves had turned the barn into a dining hall. Worse was the bustle of what seemed to be an army of liveried servants.
“Bloody hell,” Tristan said. What could Reeves possibly hope to gain with such a ridiculous thing as a dining table large enough to fit thirty or forty persons?
Stevens stiffened. “Cap’n, cock an eye starboard! ‘Tis Toggle, the lazy shifter!”
Sitting at a barrel, plate before him, napkin tucked under his chin, was a large man with a round, roly-poly face. He wore a dirty white shirt that stretched over his paunch, which was only partially hidden by a long coat that draped down past his knees. His ensemble was only slightly less nattered than he, for his graying hair was roughly chopped about his melon head, a good bit of it standing straight up in the back, sorely in need of a good brushing.
His eyes widened when he saw Tristan and he stumbled to his feet, fork and knife still clutched in his fists, a shiny stain on his chin. “Cap’n! I didn’t think—I mean, what’re ye doin’ out here?”
Tristan clasped his cane tighter, but Stevens interjected, “Toggle, ye fool. Just whose barn do ye think this is?”
The former bo’sun’s mate looked around, his eyes wide. “It belongs to the cap’n, I’d think, seein’ as how ‘tis in his own yard.”
“It is the cap’n’s, ye ninny!” Stevens shouted, face red. “Now put down yer fork ‘n stand to like a real sailor, or I’ll have ye keelhauled and whipped within a day of yer life!”
“Master Stevens, sir! I—I—I was just—” Toggle realized he was gesturing with his fork and hurriedly returned it to the table. “I was just helpin’ Master Reeves test the cook’s new recipe fer—” He looked past Tristan and Stevens, a hopeful expression on his face. “Master Reeves, what’s this called again?”
“Beef polonaise.” Reeves walked past Tristan and Stevens to the barrel. He lifted the cover on the dish in the center, a mouthwatering scent rising through the air. “My lord. Master Stevens. Perhaps you’d like to test the recipe as well. It’s a wonderful wine sauce mixed with—”
“No, we would not.” Tristan glowered at the butler. “How many servants did you bring with you?”
“Twenty-one, my lord. It will take that many to set up a new household, although had I known you already had such a retinue, I might have left one or two of the footmen behind.”
“I did not give you permission to make a dining hall out of my stables.”
“No, my lord. You did not. However, seeing as how you are now the earl of Rochester, it seemed only fitting—”
“What?” Stevens gaped. “The cap’n is an earl?”
Reeves nodded wisely. “Indeed. He has just become the seventh earl of Rochester. He stands to inherit a great fortune, as well.”
Stevens stepped back a pace, hand to his heart. “An earl!”
“Keep it down!” Tristan growled, glancing around, though only Toggle and Stevens were within hearing.
Toggle tucked his napkin more securely beneath his chin. “Master Reeves has been telling me all about the cap’n’s good fortune and how he’s one o’ the top peers in the land and how he can have this sauce fer every meal if he wishes it and—”
“That’s enough!” Tristan caught Toggle’s rather vapid gaze. “I don’t want anyone to know of this. Am I understood?”
Toggle nodded obediently, his attention already drifting back to his plate. “I won’t tell no one, Cap’n. Not a soul. Jus‘… may I finish me rations?”
Bloody hell, was his entire crew to be won over by nothing more than a tasty sauce? What kind of men were they, anyway? “Reeves! I will not have this.”
The butler raised his brows. “Not have what, my lord? The sauce? Very well. I will tell the chef you do not care for beef polonaise, however I do think you might enjoy it if you had the correct wine and—”
“I don’t want any sauce, beef polonaise or not. Reeves, I want you and your men out of my barn.” Tristan sent a glare toward Toggle. “You! You may finish your rations, but that’s it. After that, it’s back to work with you!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Toggle sank gratefully back into his seat and began shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could.
Reeves sighed. “My lord, I fear you mistake my intentions. I just thought to bring your men a little taste of what could be.”
“You wished to win them over and thus win me.” Tristan thought to embarrass the butler, but all Reeves did was smile.
“Perhaps. I suppose it’s not to be, though. I shall have the men pack our things.”
Toggle made a sound of distress, but Tristan ignored him. “See to it that they do.” He looked around, frowning. “Where are your horses?”
“We made use of the sheds.” Reeves spread his hands wide as if to indicate he’d had no other choice. “It was better to keep the animals away from the kitchen area.”
“This is a barn, Reeves. A barn. Do you understand that?”
“Of course, my lord. It is whatever you say it is. After all, you are the earl.”
Damnation! “Look, Reeves—”
Toggle cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Cap’n, but Master Reeves and his men made the sheds as shipshape as they’ve ever been. He’s bloody good at organizing. He’d make a helluva first mate.”
Stevens gaped. “What did ye say?”
Toggle blinked. “Not better than ye, of course! I didn’t mean it that way, indeed I didn’t!”
Reeves bowed to Stevens. “From what Toggle has let fall, I know you to be my superior.” He fixed his calm blue gaze on Tristan. “Before I leave, I shall write down what I know so far of Master Christian’s whereabouts.”
Christian. How had Tristan allowed himself to forget that? He nodded shortly, a flush of guilt washing away his irritation. “That is most generous of you. I am sorry I cannot allow you to stay in my barn. I cannot have such upheaval—”
“My lord, please! There is no need for an apology.”
“Yes, well… you may take an extra day to pack, if you need it.”
“There ye go, Cap’n,” Stevens said, nodding as if he’d solved their difficulties for them. “We’re back on course!”
Reeves smiled at the first mate. “Master Stevens, I hesitate to ask, but would you like a bit of supper before we pack our belongings?”
Stevens looked at Tristan. “Would ye mind, Cap’n? I mean—me lord?”
“Stop that! I won’t have that ‘my lord’ balderdash spoken in my own home.”
Stevens’s brow lowered. “I don’t know that I can call ye Cap’n anymore. ‘Tis an insult to the king, not to respect the gentry.”
Reeves nodded thoughtfully. “Rules have a place in our lives, do they not, Master Stevens?”
“Indeed they do.” Stevens opened his mouth to say something else when he froze, then slapped a hand to his forehead. “Gor, Cap’n! I almost forgot! Mrs. Thistlewaite is in yer study.”
Tristan straightened. “More sheep troubles?”
“She brought one of yer sheep with her; says ‘tis the very one as has been breakin’ into her garden.”
The news transfixed Tristan for a moment. “She brought a sheep?”
“Aye, Cap’n. Tied her muffler about it and dragged it all the way from her house.”
Despite himself, Tristan chuckled.
“Goodness,” Reeves said, his eyes bright with interest. “Who is Mrs. Thistlewaite? She sounds like a lady of great resources.”
“Lud, Master Reeves! ‘Tis the smoothest little schooner ye ever saw, smart as they come and trim as a gull! She and her mum wish to start a school for comportment near here, and we’ve all been waitin’ to see what happens. They’re widows, the both of ‘em, but I’ve yet to hear a bad word spoke about either.”
“A widow, hm?”
Tristan shot a hard glance at Reeves. He didn’t like the way the butler said the word “widow,” as if it opened up a whole new avenue of hope.
But Reeves met his look blandly enough, so Tristan asked Stevens, “Where is that blasted sheep now? I hope it is not also residing in my library.”
“Lord, no! Although, I do think that’s what Mrs. Thistlewaite wished to do. But as soon as she crossed the front doorway, it took off for deeper water. Some of the men are chasin’ it now.”
“Good. I hope they may catch it so we can have it for dinner. Reeves, we shall speak more later of your use of my barn.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Tristan turned and limped his way back toward the house. He reached the terrace and opened one of the doors into the study, then halted. There, balancing on a chair seat, was his neighbor and chief irritant. She stood on the edge, raising up on her tiptoes. One hand rested on the shelf above her, the other held something that glittered. But what interested him the most was that she was, for once, devoid of her cloak.
Tristan quietly closed the door. Stevens was right— the little widow was indeed a sight to behold. She reached up on the shelf, her gown pulled tightly over her generous chest, outlining the full swell in a way that made his body hum.
More tantalizing still was the way the light from the fire backlit her skirts until he could just make out the length of her legs and the seductive hint of her backside curve. His body tightened with need and he was assailed with a strong sense of vexation. “What are you doing?”
His guest took an instant and startled step backward, her foot coming precariously close to the edge of the chair. Tristan was there in a trice, dropping the cane and striding forward regardless of the pain, arms outstretched. He caught her just as she fell, collapsing into his arms, flailing wildly.
One of her elbows caught him in the chin. He blinked as white spots danced before his eyes, even as he pulled her tight against him, pinning her arms. For a heart-splitting second, he wobbled in place, struggling to gain purchase on his stiff leg as she squirmed against him. “Hold still, you fool!”
His harsh tone must have cut through her panic, for she stilled and looked up at him, her eyes wide. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, Tristan decided, fascinated once again with the slant of her brows. She was almost exotic in her features, and he liked the faint laugh lines that danced from the edges of her lashes, tempting him to try and win a laugh for himself.
Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”
“Was I smiling?” he asked, turning on his good heel and sitting in the chair she’d fallen from. He nestled her in his lap, her scent tickling his nose. She smelled of fresh cut lemon and something else… Was it pastries?
“Captain Llevanth, you may release me now.”
“I could,” he agreed, noting how her hair shone in the light streaming from the windows. She was a trim piece, but rounded for all of that. He rather enjoyed the feel of her in his arms.
“Captain Llevanth!”
He raised his brows.
“You will release me at once, or—”
He waited.
“Or—”
Her expression went from outrage to irritation in the space of a half of a second. “Put me down this instant!”
He was well aware that he should do as she asked. But she felt so damned good, warming his lap, her lily-fresh scent tickling his nose, that he simply could not. Could not put her down. Could not even loosen his hold, not for a thousand pounds and ten earldoms. “I will put you down when I want and not a second sooner.”
Her mouth dropped open, all prim astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
Tristan couldn’t help himself; there was something irresistibly tempting about Mrs. Thistlewaite. “You may beg all you wish, sweetness. I won’t stop you.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Captain Llevanth, I will not be treated in such a—”
Tristan kissed her. He hadn’t planned on kissing her, but somehow, it seemed the logical way to stop her ranting. He was prepared for her anger. What he was not prepared for, was his own reaction to such a basic, simple touch.
The moment his lips covered hers, something changed. The amused attraction he’d been fighting exploded into a million raging fires. He paused, his eyes opening. He found her looking back, her gaze clouded by the same shocked passion.
Tristan didn’t give her time to think; he kissed her again, more forcefully this time, splaying his hands along her back, molding her to him.
After a second’s hesitation, she gave herself to the kiss. Her arms crept about his neck and her lips parted beneath his. Time held still as Tristan mingled his breath with hers, shared the tumultuous beat of his own heart, her low moan spurring him on.
Tristan heard the noise first, the unmistakable creak of the front door somewhere far down the hallway. Somewhere in the back of his lust-emblazoned mind he knew what that meant, that someone would soon be entering this room. Unfortunately, the part of his mind that was able to reason through what this interruption meant was unable to penetrate the deep, tightly closed, and far more sensually occupied recesses of the rest of his mind. Thus it was that when Stevens walked into the library after a brief knock, Tristan was not surprised to see him. He was, rather, surprised he hadn’t done anything to stop kissing his delectable neighbor.
Prudence, on the other hand, apparently hadn’t heard the door, for she gasped when Stevens’s rather shocked, “Gor!” rang through the room.
“Oh my goodness!” She immediately tried to gain her release from Tristan’s arms by wiggling madly, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with such an inane idea. He liked her there. Wanted her there. Wanted it more than anything he’d wanted in a long, long time.
“Captain Llevanth!” she hissed under her breath.
He noted how a long strand of her hair had been released from the knot of hair at the base of her neck. “I believe you should call me Tristan.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“And I will call you—” He frowned. “I don’t know your name.”
Stevens cleared his throat. “Her name is Prudence, me lord.”
Prudence cast a baleful gaze at the first mate, who reddened and shuffled his feet, though that in no way diminished the huge smile on his face. “Sorry, missus,” Stevens said. “Yer upstairs maid is a bit of a talker.”
“And your employer is rude. Captain, release me.”
Tristan supposed he really didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t hold her forever. “As you wish, madam.” He sighed and set her on her feet.
The instant he loosened his hold, she whisked herself as far away from him as the room would allow, moving so quickly her skirts hung on the small tea table and pulled it with her.
Stevens looked at the crooked table, his brows high, his face red. His smile widened. “Well, now. I didn’t mean to interrupt ye, Cap’n. I mean, me lord.”
Prudence’s face was about the same shade as she reached down and unhooked the hem of her skirt from the edge of the table. “Dratted table!” she muttered.
Her heart was still thundering in her ears and blocking all coherent thought. Somehow, she feared she was making a horrid mull of things, though she didn’t know how. “I—I will leave now.”
“Nonsense,” the captain said calmly, not looking in the least put out at being found in such a—Prudence didn’t know what she would call the embrace, other than “most improper.” “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I have some questions for you. You just arrived, and yet here you are, poking through my things. Tell me, is this the way they do things in London? Wait until a man is out of the room, then feel free to look at all manner of personal items?”
Prudence’s cheeks heated. “No! Of course not. I didn’t mean to pry, it’s just that Stevens mentioned Trafalgar and I was curious, so—” She bit her lip. “I am sorry. There is no excuse for my curiosity.”
“Hmm.” The captain crossed his arms over his chest and flicked a lazy glance at Stevens. “What’s toward?”
“ ‘Tis about Reeves, Cap’n.”
Prudence paused in straightening her gown. “Reeves?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, but something about the way the first mate said the name sparked her curiosity.
Stevens nodded. “He’s a butler. From London! He came to serve the cap’n.”
Prudence looked at the captain. “You have a real butler?”
Stevens nodded even more vigorously. “He does now! Reeves was the old earl’s butler and now—” He broke off when the captain sent his first mate a glare guaranteed to burn the man’s socks.
“The old earl?” Prudence blinked. Heavens, what was this? “I am confused. Which earl?”
“The earl of Rochester,” Stevens said, turning his shoulder a bit so he couldn’t actually see the captain. “The old earl was the cap’n’s father.”
Prudence turned to the captain, her mouth agape. “Your father was an earl?”
The captain’s expression darkened and he said in a heavy tone, “My father was a lazy, worthless jackanapes. Anything more than that is left for question.” He glared at Stevens. “What did you have to report about Reeves? I hope he is taking down that mess he made in the barn.”
“Actually, me lord, he decided that since ye gave him one more night and he had all of that sauce readied, he might as well make use of it. So he’s invited the lot of us to join him fer dinner. Ye are included, o‘ course!”
“What?”
“Aye, Cap’n! He’s havin’ them put white cloths over the table his men made and they set out the china as was packed in the barrels on that last cart that he lugged up the cliff. The lot of them is in there now, making a horrid noise and scaring poor Winchester to death.”
“Winchester?” Prudence asked. Her breath still came rapidly and it was all she could do to distract herself from what had just happened.
“Winchester is a cat,” the captain said quietly, his curiously green gaze flickering toward her a moment.
His eyes were so unusual, she thought, so… beautiful. He raised his brows, his lips curving in a self-satisfied smile.
Prudence blushed, realizing she’d been staring. She hurriedly said, “I really must be going.”
“You only just arrived,” the captain replied.
“Aye, missus! Ye’d like Winchester. He’s an orange tabby and the best mouser we ever had.” Stevens chuckled a bit. “We kept Winchester aboard the Victory right up to the very end. We never so much as saw one rat the whole time we was at sea.”
Prudence managed a smile. “Indeed. Winchester sounds like a prime cat.” Somehow, she could not see the captain… no, the earl caring about such things as a cat.
She tried to reconcile herself with the fact that her neighbor was not all he seemed. Still, she didn’t think she quite believed the earl story. Not that the captain seemed to, either. “Captain, about this earl question—”
“There is no question,” the man said quietly.
Stevens rocked back on his heels. “I remember one rat was so big as could lift the mainsail by hisself, he could.”
Distracted, Prudence’s gaze narrowed. “Oh?”
“Why yes, madam,” Stevens said, warming to his audience. “ ‘Twas a huge rat, the size of a dog.”
To Tristan’s delight, Prudence plopped her hands on her hips. “And how could a rat raise a sail? Did you tie his tiny paws to a rope?”
“Of course not! Ye couldn’t make that work, ‘deed you couldn’t. But we did make a little rope harness for the beastie. And off she went, pullin’ that blasted sail, even against the wind! ‘Twas the damnedest—oh, sorry, madam. ’Twas the most twiddlepated thing I ever saw.”
Prudence looked Stevens up and down. “Have you been drinking?”
He blinked. “Why… no, madam! ‘Tis scarce on ten. Now had it been noon, ye might have got me on that one.”
“If you have not been drinking, then what on earth possessed you to think I’d believe such a tale as that?” She puffed out her cheeks in an exasperated sigh. “Rats hoisting sails. Next you’ll be telling me you used one to navigate with, too.”
“Actually, madam,” Stevens said earnestly, “there was one rat as swallowed Johnny Barn’s silver pocket watch and—”
“Oh! Not another word!” She rounded on Tristan well before he had time to hide his grin. “And you!”
His smile faded of its own accord. “What about me?”
“It seems that lying is a natural attribute of all sailors.”
“Here now,” he protested. “I didn’t lie to you and neither did Stevens. We were merely telling you a yarn.”
“Which time, my lord?” Her voice scoffed across the last words.
Tristan shrugged. “I don’t like the title myself.”
“Pull about there, madam!” Stevens said. “The cap’n is indeed a real live earl.”
Prudence cocked a disbelieving brow at the first mate. “Of course. He is an earl. And I am the duchess of Devonshire.”
Stevens gaped. “No! And right here, in our own little corner of the world! If that don’t beat all. I suppose ‘tis a good thing then that ye’ve become cozy with the cap’n. He could use a duchess or two on his frigate, ‘deed he could. Especially now he is gentry.”
Prudence drew herself up to her full height, what there was of it, and flashed a distempered look at Tristan. “You’ve trained them well. They lie with authority, the lot of them.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “That particular bit of information happens to be the truth. I am an earl.”
“Of course you are.”
“I am not saying it’s deserved. My father held the title, though he refused to acknowledge me.” He managed a faint smile. “I was born on the wrong side of the blankets, you know.”
Her cheeks pinkened. “I didn’t know, but it does not matter.”
“It eventually did to my father. When he discovered he was dying without legitimate issue, he did what he is best known for—blatant chicanery—and made things work to his favor, as ever. Thus, here I am, possessor of a proud title.”
Her brows lowered and she frowned, as if mulling this over.
Tristan didn’t enjoy telling her this. He wasn’t really sure why he had bothered, except that he didn’t wish her to think him a braggart, holding a title that wasn’t his. “It’s all quite confusing. I won’t inherit the fortune, land or houses unless I comply with the late earl’s notions of behavior.”
“Which would be?”
“Bowing and scraping and kissing the arses of half the nobility.”
“Goodness. You sound disenchanted.”
Tristan scowled. “I’ll not dress in velvets just to win some blunt, no matter the amount.”
Prudence sniffed. “That is quite noble of you, turning your back on a fortune in an effort to keep to your values of slovenly dress and rude behavior.”
Tristan burst into laughter. “A man must have his principles.”
“Indeed. I’ve often heard it stated that a man without principles is like a ship without a rudder. What would you be without your surly disposition and unmannerly outbursts? Certainly not the rough sea captain we’ve all come to know and… recognize.”
“Please don’t hold back on my account.”
She smiled sweetly. “Ah, but you are an injured man. I would so hate to insult you when you’re not at your full capacities.”
Stevens threw his hands in the air. “Heads down! I think perhaps I’d best be going, I should. Mayhap I’ll bring back some tea, if there’s any to be had.” He scurried from the room, sending Prudence a warning glance before he disappeared.
The woman had the audacity to smile. “Your man seems to think I am in some danger.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “So you are, sweetheart.” He leaned forward. “Allow me to assure you that I am at my full capacity, injured leg or not. The musket ball did not come anywhere near the Important Part.”
Her cheeks bloomed. “That will be enough of that, thank you.”
“You were the one who suggested I was not able to take the seas at full sail.”
“Yes, but I did not mean—oh, never mind. I can see that you are merely teasing me.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. He admired the delicious way her lips quivered as she tried not to return his smile. Her eyes met his, and suddenly, everything felt right. Right in a way they had not for a very, very long time. Perhaps ever.
He wondered if perhaps, in accepting the title, he might not find many more such moments—with a woman such as this.
“I wonder…” She regarded him steadily, her head tilted to one side. “What exactly do you have to—” She colored suddenly. “I’m sorry. It is none of my concern.”
No it wasn’t. Still… Tristan watched her from beneath his lashes. Mrs. Thistlewaite may not be titled, but her every movement bespoke breeding and elegance. She seemed out of place in the simplicity of his library. She moved like a countess, he decided. And since he was now an earl—
Good God, where had that thought come from? He needed to focus on the funds, not daydream about such wasted silliness.
Yes, he told himself. Think of the funds. Never again would an injured sailor go hungry or without wages. The house could be enlarged. Perhaps some berths added in a wing that would keep him from turning away the newly arrived. He was at capacity as it was now.
To win the funds, he’d have to pass muster with the trustees, and something in Reeves’s expression had led Tristan to think that that might not be an easy task. What if he couldn’t do it?
He suddenly became aware of Prudence standing before him. She gave a sharp curtsy and said, “I really must go. I’ve errands to run this afternoon, though I’ve yet to complete the task I set out to do in coming here.”
“Ah, yes. My sheep.”
“The next time one finds itself in my garden, I shall make soup of it.”
He raised his brows. “You can cook? Had I known that I should have sent you a more tender ewe.”
Her eyes narrowed, her full lips pursed in an accusing scowl.
Tristan threw up his hand, laughing. “Hold fire, woman! I am teasing you! I vow on my mother’s grave I did not know my sheep had climbed your gate yet again. I am as mystified as ever as to how that keeps occurring.”
Her shoulders straightened, though some of the suspicion left her eyes. “However that may be, they are still your sheep. It is time you took responsibility for them.”
“I’m a sailor, not a shepherd. But for you…” Tristan eyed his neighbor from the top of her glossy brown curls to the tantalizing glimpse of her slippered toes before saying in a voice heavily laced with appreciation, “for you, I could be.”
Her face flushed a delightful pink and she made a hurried curtsy. “Th-thank you. I—I—You—you—you—” She grimaced. “Oh blast it! Just keep your blasted sheep on your own property!” and with that ringing announcement, she spun and almost ran from the room.

10-01-08, 05:59 PM

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كاتب الموضوع : darla المنتدى : الارشيف

Chapter 8

It is a delicate thing, to always be right. An intelligent butler will know how to make this difficult fact palatable. At least, for the moment it counts.

A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves

Tristan leaned his hand on the frame above his head and looked out of the terrace window. The wind stirred the greenery, waves of hedgerow brushing the quickly darkening sky over the cliff beyond. At the corner of the view, the edge of the barn was just visible.
The barn…
Tristan scowled at it. If he had any magic to him at all, the bloody edifice would disappear from sight and with it, the dilemma he now faced. He wanted those damn funds. The more he thought of what he could do with them, the more impossible it seemed to walk away from the “opportunity” offered.
How like his wondrous father to make life so miserably unfair. The man must even now be laughing in his grave.
The thought simmered in his stomach like molten lead. “Damn his bones.” Tristan turned on his heel, away from the window. “I’d rather shovel coal than kowtow to a bunch of mealy-mouthed members of the blue-blood set.” They were of the same ilk as the old earl, who had not helped Mother so many years ago, and left her to die of the ague in a chilled, damp prison. He remembered discovering his mother’s fate almost two years after the fact, the wound still fresh, the pain still real.
Anger surged through him. He’d lost so much over the years. His brother. Then his mother. And now, the father he’d never had.
Tristan curled his hand into a fist against the glass and rested his forehead on it. Damn the earl to hell. Tristan would spend no more time thinking about him. There were more weighty issues at hand; like Christian. Tristan had looked for his brother for so many years. Now, he had the opportunity to find him. All he needed was Reeves’s information and some time.
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, the scratch of his overgrown whiskers sounding loud to his own ears. As the haughty Prudence had left, he’d glimpsed a bit of redness to her chin that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with his whiskers. He’d have to shave more often if the tempting lady was to be about.
Prudence. Despite the weight on his chest, he smiled. The name suited her well. The memory of the kiss lingered, his bottom lip tingling as if he could still feel it. She’d been quite troubled by that embrace. Very troubled. He had to admit he rather enjoyed seeing the little wren flustered.
She looked far more appealing when she was mussed by his kisses. Appealing and… he pursed his lips, considering how she’d appeared when he’d finally allowed her to regain her feet. She’d looked rather wanton, truth be told. There was fire in that woman’s heart. Fire and a sensual nature that was fighting for release.
It was a pity she was what she was—the type of woman one married. Had she been a more free-and-willing type, he might have made an effort to establish himself in her good graces. Or at least in her bed.
Prudence was lovely, spirited, intelligent and honest. In a word, exactly the sort of woman he avoided like the plague. The thought of settling was unpalatable. He was a wandering man now, a man of the sea. The thought of staying in one place was a hardship, the thing that made his injury so desperately unbearable.
The very thought of being chained to a house—a home—was painful for him, which was why he didn’t mind the men invading his cottage. He might have purchased the blasted place, but it was no more his home than any other place he’d slept since he’d first taken to the sea.
That was why a relationship with a woman like Prudence could lead to nothing but heartache. She was a woman who made her home wherever she went. She would not be satisfied wandering from continent to continent, which Tristan fully intended on doing once the men were more secure. She would want a house with curtains and a garden, and a husband who enjoyed sitting by the fire night after night.
He was not the last interested in being nailed to the parson’s cross. Not in this lifetime, anyway. He had too much to do as it was, his crew to care for, his brother to find. Besides, he’d been alone almost his whole life and it was not such a bad fate. He really hadn’t had anyone to call his own since… Christian.
An odd ache twisted Tristan’s heart. How was his brother? Had the years been kind? Or not? These were the questions that had plagued him until, tortured by the lack of answers, he’d stopped asking them. Stopped wondering. Stopped hoping.
Until Reeves.
Tristan looked down and realized he was clutching the cane knob so tightly that his fingers ached. It was difficult, thinking about this.
But here lay a new challenge. A new sea to navigate, as it were. And navigate it, he would. He would find Christian. He would also win the funds from the trustees for his men. Life sometimes demanded compromises that were difficult and demanding.
He glanced over his shoulder at the desk. The will sat there, silently mocking him. He’d read it all, every blasted word, and still could not believe what it said. Nor how much wealth the old earl had left, not just to him, but to Christian.
“Bloody hell, where is Reeves?” Tristan looked back out the window. He needed the butler. Needed him to find Christian, and also to help find a way to appease the trustees.
Unlike other naval figures, Tristan had eschewed public life. He hated the falseness of it all, the silks and velvets that covered black hearts and selfish souls. Knowing his father, he could almost guess at the cut of the cloth of these “trustees.” Tristan would have bet the Victory that they were all soft, overblown, pretentious arses, the lot of them.
Tristan looked at the barn, noting the warm-looking beams of light shining through the cracks in the door and spilling across the quickly darkening yard. It was tempting to cross the short distance and see which of the men had decided to join Reeves’s troupe for dinner. Certainly Toggle would still be there; the man was led by his stomach. And perhaps one or two of the others. Tristan supposed he couldn’t blame them; it wasn’t often they were met with such succulent fare.
The rations were getting more meager, the living quarters more cramped. Like a ship at sea with no land in sight, they were running short on supplies. Even now, piled neatly on the corner of Tristan’s desk, was a stack of bills that would soon be pressing. His funds had been stretched to their limits and yet there always seemed to be another lost sailor in need of a home.
Tristan shook his head. He’d think about that another time. For now, he’d try to remember the name of the sauce that had so caught the bo’sun’s mate’s fancy. That was something worth remembering, he decided as his stomach rumbled. He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Bloody hell, it was almost six bells. Where was his dinner, dammit? Usually Cook had rations on the table well before now.
Tristan limped to the door and opened it. “Stevens!” A strange emptiness echoed without. To Tristan’s ears, it sounded as if he was alone in the house.
That was odd. In the last year, he could not count upon one hand the number of times that had happened. Tristan walked down the hallway, the eerie silence growing. Were all of the men in the barn? Surely not every last one of them. What of his supper?
Growling to himself, he grabbed his coat off the hook and pulled it on before making his way outside. Within moments, he was at the barn, amidst the loud din of voices.
Tristan opened the wide door, halting stock still at the scene. If the place had seemed different before, now it was positively transformed. The entire barn was spotless, the long narrow table down the center covered with crisp white linens and set with sparkling silver and china. Large silver candelabra decorated the centers, carefully placed tureens set here and there.
What astounded him beyond the magnificence of the place settings was that every last one of Tristan’s men was present. Even Stevens, who sat at the head of the table looking almost kingly, a beatific expression on his face as he contemplated the food before him.
Bloody hell. His entire crew had jumped ship. The sight sent a pang through him.
“My lord?”
The quietly spoken words came from behind Tristan. He turned to find Reeves standing a short distance away, a smallish man at his side sporting a very large, very black moustache.
Reeves bowed. “My lord, allow me to introduce you to the chef, Signore Pietra.”
“Pietra? That’s Italian.”
“Indeed, my lord. Your father—”
“I have asked you not to call him that.”
Reeves hesitated. “As you wish, my lord. As I was saying, the late earl brought a French chef into his house years ago. Soon everyone was following suit. So, last year, he imported Pietra. The man is a genius.”
The diminutive chef looked amazingly like a frog in a white hat. He bulged with pleasure. “Ah, thank you, Signore Reeves! My lord, Reeves is a genius. When I first come, I say I cannot cook in the barn! It is unheard of. But Reeves, he brings out his cart and there it is, a cookstove like no cookstove I have ever seen! Tables where I need them! And all of my favorite pans! So, it was not so hard, after all.”
Reeves looked pleased. He glanced at Tristan and said in an undertone, “It is a new Gunner and Albertson cookstove. One of the latest.”
“I see,” Tristan said, though he plainly did not.
The chef nodded. “I will cook for you, my lord!” He turned on his heel and yelled, “Nico! Set another plate for his lordship.”
Tristan reached out to stop the man, but it was too late. Already two liveried servants scurried to the table carrying glassware.
Reeves smiled gently. “The hand of God cannot be stilled.”
“I am not trying to still God’s hand. Just yours. Speaking of which,” Tristan eyed the butler severely, “you were to give me all of the information you’d collected on my brother.”
Reeves’s expression sobered instantly. “Indeed I was. However, Mr. Dunstead suggested I wait. Just this afternoon he received some information that may well lead him directly to your brother. The solicitor left this afternoon to pursue it. He thinks to return within a day or two.”
Tristan’s heart leapt. “Two days? Then my brother is nearby?”
“It is possible, my lord. I do not know what Dunstead heard exactly, but he was quite adamant it was necessary to pursue it forthwith. And so he did.”
Tristan didn’t know what to say. He just looked blankly at the butler, struggling against an onslaught of emotion.
Reeves cleared his throat and discreetly looked away. “I think you will be pleased with the meal. Already the duke of Cumberland and the duchess of Berkley have announced their intentions of garnering the services of your chef. There is no greater compliment than having that which others covet.”
“So I’ve been told.” Tristan took a deep breath, the rich scents making his mouth water. Certainly he’d never seen his men so quietly intent. He looked at them more closely. There was something different… and it was more than their actions, though they were unaccountably quieter. “My men…”
“Yes?”
Tristan straightened. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes; every one of his men was wearing a new coat. Even Stevens, who sat lording it over the others at the head of the long table, was resplendent in a black coat with red and gold braid.
Reeves beamed. “Not knowing the full capacity of your household staff and realizing there was little time to have uniforms made, I brought an odd assortment of old liveries. I informed your men that in order for them to be served, they had to choose a coat from the selection.”
“Bloody hell.” It was all Tristan could think to say. He could not help but notice the quiet good cheer that permeated the men gathered before him. Despite his misgivings, he had to smile a little himself. The men knew so little happiness of late. It was yet another reason for him to pursue and win the funds from his inheritance.
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest, knowing what he had to say, yet the words stuck in his throat as thick as a morning fog. “Reeves?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I have reconsidered my position on my inheritance. A matter has arisen that requires funds. If I do this thing—manage to convince the trustees that I’m worthy of the title—then I’ll have access to all those funds, will I not?”
“Yes.”
Tristan looked out at his men, a spontaneous rumble of laughter making him more resolute. “Then I shall do it.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “I had no idea that sorry bastard was so wealthy. I knew he was well set, but the amounts put forth in the will—I was astounded. You’d think he could have spared a pence or two when asked for assistance.” Like when Tristan’s own mother had languished in gaol.
Understanding flickered across Reeves’s face. “Your father—I’m sorry, my lord. The late earl. He was many things, oddly generous with those who worked for him and yet quite closed to those within his own family.”
“He was a selfish bastard.”
“Yes. He was. He also lived to regret that he was not able to come to your assistance when requested.”
“Notable?”
“He was out of the country and thus did not receive notification of your mother’s plight until it was too late. The earl was quite saddened by events.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “I will not tell you what I suffered because of what transpired with my mother, nor do I fully know what Christian suffered, but none of it had to happen.” Tristan hated the bitterness in his voice, but he could not help it any more than he could stop breathing. “My father paid no heed to either of us. Had he done so, he would have known when something went awry.”
Fortunately, Reeves didn’t try to convince him that he felt otherwise. The butler merely nodded, understanding on his face.
“I shall not let that interfere with my pursuit of the funds,” Tristan said finally. He clasped his hand tighter about his cane, leaning against it a bit as a twinge ran up his leg. He was standing far too much and he would pay dearly for it tomorrow. “Where do we begin? What exactly do I need to do to garner the favor of the fops my father put in place as trustees?”
A reluctant smile touched the butler’s mouth. “How do you know they are fops?”
Tristan leveled a gaze at Reeves. “From what little I do know about my father, he thought fashion far more important than anything else.”
“I can see why you would think that and, indeed, you are correct; they are not men of superior intelligence. They will be concerned with comportment rather than character.”
“Just as I thought.”
The butler pursed his lips. “Perhaps you might see your way to taking a few lessons in comportment, and then a new wardrobe. The usual things a man might need when setting up a fashionable establishment.”
What an ill-gotten waste of time. “It’s a pity I can’t enroll in that damn academy Mrs. Thistlewaite wishes to begin. I daresay she knows all that sort of nonsense.”
Reeves’s brows slowly rose. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“I said it was a pity I couldn’t enroll in—” Tristan caught the gleam in the butler’s eyes. “No, do not even think it. I was merely funning.”
“My lord, perhaps you do not understand. We have only one month before the trustees come to inspect you. Stevens has been telling me about Mrs. Thistlewaite and her plans. It might serve well— very well indeed.”
The entire idea was preposterous. “Engaging Mrs. Thistlewaite as a tutor is—”
“A tutor! Yes, that would do very well. A capital idea!” Reeves said, nodding, his expression more and more animated. “Mrs. Thistlewaite might indeed be of service, for a small fee, of course. It would serve you well, and free my time so that I may oversee the training of your staff. A man is known by the quality of his servants.”
Tristan opened his mouth to protest when a small, interesting thought flickered through his mind. If he agreed to set his course just so, then the delectable Prudence would be in his house.
With him.
For hours on end.
He found himself grinning. Perhaps learning to be an earl wouldn’t be so painful a process with such a distracting armful within reach. Thus he was able to say with real feeling, “Reeves, you are indeed a genius.”
Reeves was already smiling. “Thank you, my lord. I do my best.”

Prudence put her sewing basket in her lap and began digging for some red thread. One day, she was going to organize her basket. Place all of the threads about cards by color, and tuck all of the scraps into a neat pouch. She might even place the straight pins in one cushion instead of having them stuck in the edges of the trim work left over from last year’s unsuccessful attempt to make a chemise.
She pulled out a pair of woolen stockings and examined the hole in the toe of one. “Blasted stocking,” she muttered, wondering if perhaps magenta thread would blend well enough to mend it. The red thread seemed to have vanished.
It was sad to be remending an already mended stocking, but she had little choice. They were reaching the last of their funds. If they did not gain some pupils soon, they’d be reduced to selling some of their precious furnishings.
Sighing, Prudence bent her head and began mending the stocking as best she could.
The door opened and Mother scurried in, her hand plopped on her lace cap, holding it in place. Her eyes lit on seeing her daughter. “Prudence! There is a man to see you!”
The captain. Prudence flew to her feet, her sewing basket falling to the floor. “The captain is here? Now?”
“No, no! It’s not him. This gentleman is somewhat older. Very distinguished, too.” Mother leaned out the doorway and peeked down the hall, adding in a faux undertone, “I wonder if he’s a member of the peerage. He has such an air, but I don’t remember seeing him before.”
A member of the peerage? Prudence’s stomach tightened. She remembered all the days when one after another, men who’d invested in Phillip’s program had arrived at the house. Some had been angry. Some sad. But the worst had been desperate. They’d put their entire fortunes in Phillip’s hands and wanted someone— anyone—to tell them they would earn it back.
At the time, Prudence had still been reeling from Phillip’s illness. She hadn’t known where to turn and the interviews had been painful, though not as painful as Phillip’s eventual death and then the scandal following. She pushed away the unwanted thoughts, smoothing her skirts nervously.
Mother dashed to stand by the settee across from Prudence’s chair.
Mrs. Fieldings entered, the gentleman behind her. The housekeeper looked properly impressed. “Mr. Reeves, madam.”
The gentleman was tall and slender and dressed in an impeccable black coat, his cravat simply tied. He bowed, his blue eyes bright, his black hair tipped with white. “Madam, I am Reeves, butler to the earl of Rochester.”
Prudence paused in mid-curtsy. “Earl?”
“Indeed, madam.”
Prudence didn’t know quite what to say. After a belated moment, she gestured to her mother. “This is my mother, Mrs. Crumpton.”
Mother curtsied. “Mr. Reeves! From the earl of Rochester’s! How exciting! I didn’t even know there was an earl within distance—”
“Mother, I believe Mr. Reeves is referring to the captain.”
Mother’s eyes widened. “The captain? Is an earl? A real live earl?”
Reeves gave a stately nod. “Indeed, madam. He has but this week inherited the title. Which is why I am here.” The man turned to Prudence, his gaze lingering at her feet. “I trust I am not disturbing your sewing.”
“My—” Her sewing basket laid at her feet. Oh yes. She’d forgotten about that. “I was just finishing.” She bent and retrieved the basket, scooping the *******s into it as quickly as she could.
As she did so, he bent as well and calmly assisted her. “Madam, I have come on a matter of business.” He sat back on his heels and met her gaze squarely. “The earl is in a quandary. To gain control of his fortune, he must be approved by a set board of trustees. They will expect to see a man of distinction and manner or they will not approve the release of the funds. You have met the captain. While he has the distinction necessary, his manner could use some gentle polishing. I believe that is where we need you.”
“You want me to tutor that—the captain?”
He stood, helping her to her feet and placing the basket on a nearby table. “Yes, madam.”
Mother clapped her hands.
Prudence sent her a quelling glance. Really, the captain didn’t even like Prudence. Well, he liked to kiss her, that much had been evident. If Prudence was truthful, she’d rather enjoyed it herself. Quite a bit, in fact. Her cheeks heated. Spending time with the captain—the earl, that is—was not a good idea. “Mr. Reeves, I am afraid I cannot do as you request. I am quite busy and—”
“Nonsense,” Mother said firmly. She looked at the butler. “Prudence would be delighted to assist.”
“But Mother—”
“Prudence, the man is an earl, for heaven’s sakes! How can you refuse him?”
“Easily. Mr. Reeves, I am afraid it is impossible. I don’t think I could—”
“Of course, there will be a handsome compensation.”
Mother’s eyes brightened. “How much?”
“Mother!”
“You should not sell your services for a pence less than they are worth,” Mother said calmly. She lifted her brows at the butler. “Should she?”
“Indeed she should not,” he agreed, implacable as ever. “The earl is prepared to be generous.”
“He knows of this?” Prudence asked suspiciously.
“It was his idea,” Reeves returned in a gentle voice.
“Oh.”
“He is willing to go as high as a hundred pounds for the month.”
It was a fortune. Prudence cleared her throat. “Well. That is certainly generous. However, there is a small issue of—Reeves, the captain does not like me.” He desired her and any other woman who might tumble into his arms. But he certainly had never expressed any other emotion—like concern or respect. Which was, she thought a bit tartly, a great pity.
Reeves’s smile turned wry. “I haven’t found many people the captain does hold in affection.”
“He must hold his crew in some affection; he lets them live with him.”
“You are right; he does care for them. Deeply, I believe. But he is not affectionate toward them. He is, in fact, rather short tempered. However, they know him and love him and thus everyone seems quite happy with the arrangement.”
“I wouldn’t be.”
“No, madam. Fortunately, what I am asking of you has nothing to do with affection. I merely wish to hire you to tutor his lordship.”
Prudence pressed two fingers to her forehead. Tutor.
The captain. The man who, by simply brushing his fingertips over her arms, could send shivers over her bared skin. “I—I am not sure I—”
“Without your help, he will lose the fortune and his men will suffer greatly,” Reeves said in a quiet, earnest tone.
Prudence thought of the men she’d seen, many of them battle scarred and unfit to make it on their own. “What exactly would I have to do?”
“Within one month’s time, you will need to teach the new earl the rudiments of polite society.”
“One month?”
“Yes. The trustees will come then to make their decision. He will need instruction in dancing, conversation, rules of behavior…” Reeves shrugged. “Just think of the captain as a rather large and gauche debutante.”
Despite her misgivings, Prudence had to chuckle. “I don’t believe he’d like anyone to think of him in those terms.”
“No, madam. Which is why we won’t tell him.”
She looked at the butler for a moment. “You believe secrets are sometimes necessary things?”
“Indeed, my lady. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes. But not with the captain. If I think of him as an overgrown debutante, then I will tell him. Personally, I believe his arrogance has caused quite a few of the problems in his life.”
“Indeed, my lady. It is also one of the things that has kept him alive. His life has not been as easy as he would have you believe.”
Prudence’s interest flared yet higher. The captain did have a limp, but other than that, he seemed so strong, so capable, so assured.
Reeves added, “It is also possible that that very arrogance will make his transition to earl all the easier. Members of the peerage are not known for their humble manners.”
She smiled a little at that. “Reeves, in your experience, have you found all earls to be as arrogant?”
“Every last one.”
“Heredity?”
“And a firm belief they are favored by God. Which is something only they and the Creator truly know.”
Prudence looked down at her hands, clasped before her. “I don’t know. I just—”
“He needs your help, madam. Unless I greatly mistake the matter, the men in his employ are all he cares about. Yet there are so many, he cannot keep up with the costs.”
Mother sighed. “That’s true. Why, the doctor was just telling me how some of those poor men were wounded and had been improperly cared for. He is over there at least once a week and says he should go more often, but dares not as the burden on the captain’s purse would be too much.”
“That is too kind of the doctor,” Prudence said dryly. She looked at the butler. “You believe the captain will use the money for his men?”
“I am certain of it.”
She squeezed her fingers together, mulling this through. She would make a healthy wage, which would ease Mother’s mind a good bit. She would also be assisting those poor sailors who lived with the captain—or rather, the earl. She needed to remember his title, if nothing else.
Perhaps the best part was that she would have the chance to mold the earl to a more acceptable form, teach him the rudiments of society and have the benefit of watching him bloom under her tutelage.
For an instant, she had an image of the earl on his knees before her as he thanked her for showing him the error of his ways.
It was purely imaginary, of course, but still… the scene held a lot of appeal.
She nodded once. “I will do it.”
Reeves smiled. “Thank you, madam!”
“Tell him I will come tomorrow by noon. If the trustees have given us naught but a month, we will have our work cut out for us.”