about?”
“I have no notion, ma’am,” Margery said woodenly. “Here are
your stockings, ma’am. And may I suggest the pink day gown and matching
slippers?”
She managed to get Lady Grant into her clothes with great
difficulty. It was like trying to dress a slippery fish, because her ladyship
was forever changing her mind about what she would wear, kept wriggling out of
one outfit and into another, and rushed to the mirror to check which colors were
most flattering to her morning complexion. Finally, a half hour later than
promised, they were both ready.
The challenge of getting Lady Grant dressed had distracted
Margery for a while, but as she trailed her employer down the broad sweeping
stair her anxiety returned, the feeling of sick dread intensifying with every
step she took.
She had no notion how she would defend herself against the
charge that she had behaved with lewd abandon the previous night. She could not
bear to see the disgust and shock in Lady Grant’s eyes when she heard what had
happened. For all Joanna Grant’s maddening butterfly mind, she was the kindest
and most thoughtful of employers. They respected each other, they liked each
other, and Margery could not bear to disappoint Lady Grant. Her throat felt dry.
Her tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed hard as
the footman opened the drawing room door and she followed her employer
inside.
Immediately matters became a whole lot worse.
There was a man standing beside the long windows that looked
out across the terrace and the garden beyond. He was tall and broad and the
sunlight fell on his hair giving it a blue-black sheen. He was dressed
immaculately in a coat of green superfine and skintight breeches that emphasized
his muscular thighs. His boots had a high polish. His linen was starched, his
cravat a masterpiece of mathematical complication.
Margery could not see his face clearly; the sun slanted across
the room hiding the expression in his eyes. He turned to look at her as she
walked in and she thought that she was going to faint. She barely noticed Mr.
Churchward, who had stood up and was bowing over Lady Grant’s hand with
old-fashioned courtesy.
“I do apologize for disturbing you at this shockingly
uncivilized hour, Lady Grant,” the lawyer was saying. “Only the urgency of my
business can excuse it.” He gestured to his companion. “I believe you are
already acquainted with Lord Wardeaux?”
Lord Wardeaux.
Margery’s heart jumped. Not the gentleman Henry Ward, then, but
the nobleman Lord Wardeaux, whom she was already sure was no gentleman at
all.
“Of course,” Lady Grant said. “Henry is practically a member of
the family, since my sister Merryn is married to his cousin.” She was masking
her curiosity and her puzzlement behind her exquisite manners. “How do you do?”
She gave Henry her hand and Margery watched as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“My lady,” he murmured. “I hope you are well?”
Margery was far from well herself. She felt sick. She tried to
reverse out of the room but the door had been closed and her hot palms met
nothing but the cool wood. From a distance she could hear Mr. Churchward’s voice
and she realized that all four of the others were looking at her.
“I believe,” the lawyer was saying with careful lack of
emphasis, “that you, too, have already met Lord Wardeaux, Miss Mallon?”
Margery straightened. She was not going down without a
fight.
“Indeed I have,” she said coldly. “Although he was calling
himself something different at the time.”
A flicker of a smile touched Henry Wardeaux’s handsome mouth.
He bowed. “Miss Mallon.”
“My lord.” Margery was damned if she was going to curtsy to
him. She inclined her head the slightest inch and saw his smile deepen.
There was an odd silence. “Perhaps, Mr. Churchward,” Joanna
Grant interposed, “you might explain your urgent business? In simple terms, if
you please. I fear I do not function
“I have no notion, ma’am,” Margery said woodenly. “Here are
your stockings, ma’am. And may I suggest the pink day gown and matching
slippers?”
She managed to get Lady Grant into her clothes with great
difficulty. It was like trying to dress a slippery fish, because her ladyship
was forever changing her mind about what she would wear, kept wriggling out of
one outfit and into another, and rushed to the mirror to check which colors were
most flattering to her morning complexion. Finally, a half hour later than
promised, they were both ready.
The challenge of getting Lady Grant dressed had distracted
Margery for a while, but as she trailed her employer down the broad sweeping
stair her anxiety returned, the feeling of sick dread intensifying with every
step she took.
She had no notion how she would defend herself against the
charge that she had behaved with lewd abandon the previous night. She could not
bear to see the disgust and shock in Lady Grant’s eyes when she heard what had
happened. For all Joanna Grant’s maddening butterfly mind, she was the kindest
and most thoughtful of employers. They respected each other, they liked each
other, and Margery could not bear to disappoint Lady Grant. Her throat felt dry.
Her tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed hard as
the footman opened the drawing room door and she followed her employer
inside.
Immediately matters became a whole lot worse.
There was a man standing beside the long windows that looked
out across the terrace and the garden beyond. He was tall and broad and the
sunlight fell on his hair giving it a blue-black sheen. He was dressed
immaculately in a coat of green superfine and skintight breeches that emphasized
his muscular thighs. His boots had a high polish. His linen was starched, his
cravat a masterpiece of mathematical complication.
Margery could not see his face clearly; the sun slanted across
the room hiding the expression in his eyes. He turned to look at her as she
walked in and she thought that she was going to faint. She barely noticed Mr.
Churchward, who had stood up and was bowing over Lady Grant’s hand with
old-fashioned courtesy.
“I do apologize for disturbing you at this shockingly
uncivilized hour, Lady Grant,” the lawyer was saying. “Only the urgency of my
business can excuse it.” He gestured to his companion. “I believe you are
already acquainted with Lord Wardeaux?”
Lord Wardeaux.
Margery’s heart jumped. Not the gentleman Henry Ward, then, but
the nobleman Lord Wardeaux, whom she was already sure was no gentleman at
all.
“Of course,” Lady Grant said. “Henry is practically a member of
the family, since my sister Merryn is married to his cousin.” She was masking
her curiosity and her puzzlement behind her exquisite manners. “How do you do?”
She gave Henry her hand and Margery watched as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“My lady,” he murmured. “I hope you are well?”
Margery was far from well herself. She felt sick. She tried to
reverse out of the room but the door had been closed and her hot palms met
nothing but the cool wood. From a distance she could hear Mr. Churchward’s voice
and she realized that all four of the others were looking at her.
“I believe,” the lawyer was saying with careful lack of
emphasis, “that you, too, have already met Lord Wardeaux, Miss Mallon?”
Margery straightened. She was not going down without a
fight.
“Indeed I have,” she said coldly. “Although he was calling
himself something different at the time.”
A flicker of a smile touched Henry Wardeaux’s handsome mouth.
He bowed. “Miss Mallon.”
“My lord.” Margery was damned if she was going to curtsy to
him. She inclined her head the slightest inch and saw his smile deepen.
There was an odd silence. “Perhaps, Mr. Churchward,” Joanna
Grant interposed, “you might explain your urgent business? In simple terms, if
you please. I fear I do not function
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