Lucy by M.C. Beaton Page B

in her romance seemed vulgar. She wished he would go away.
    “Oh, dear,” sighed MacGregor. “It’s obviously all too delicate and precious at the moment for a bit of everyday horse sense. Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, let’s talk of something else. It’s high time we got ourselves some servants. The lack of them is making us conspicuous. I’ve employed a temporary valet and lady’s maid through the hotel manager. If you go on any more walks with young gentlemen, my dear, be sure to take your maid.”
    “But will I employ my own lady’s maid in London?” asked Lucy anxiously.
    “Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it. Get a woman with good references.”
    Lucy nodded but had privately made up her mind to employ some young girl who would enjoy the opportunity of having a lenient mistress.
    “Are we going to Mr. Jones’s ball?” she asked, to change the subject.
    “I suppose so. Don’t die with excitement before then.”
    “I am perfectly calm,” snapped Lucy. But secretly she felt that the next day would never come.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The Joneses’ mansion was called Mon Repos, conjuring up visions of quiet suburban villas standing among laurel bushes in a tree-lined road.
    But Mon Repos was a great towering Gothic house perched on the edge of a barren cliff and set about with spires and turrets and gargoyles. Elinor Glynn would have loved it. A fine, powdery snow was blowing in from the sea as Lucy and MacGregor alighted. To heighten the Gothic effect, flambeaux flared from sconces in the walls, sputtering and smoking in the bitter wind.
    The entrance hall was a veritable armory of halberds and suits of armor. Ancient flags fluttered in the drafts high up on the beamed roof and Lucy only learned much later that they were modern and that Mr. Jones had paid a great deal to have them cleverly faded, tattered, and frayed.
    A powdered footman with a bad case of temper—Lucy wondered if his hair hurt him—led them to the first floor where they were to leave their cloaks. Another bad-tempered footman—it
must
be the hair—accosted them outside and marched them along a complicated series of passages which suddenly opened into a circular hallway where Mr. Jones himself stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the ballroom, to receive his guests.
    He was a fat, jolly little man with a fat, wet handshake. He seemed greatly taken with MacGregor and promised them both a tour of his “museum” later in the evening. They were then passed on to a cross-looking majordomo, who was dressed in scarlet livery bedecked with a great deal of silken cords. Lucy felt that if she pulled one of them, his whole uniform would roll up like a Venetian blind. A carved wooden staircase adorned with carved wooden unicorns and lions stretched down to the polished floor of the ballroom where a great assortment of people seemed to be inexpertly performing the quadrille. A small orchestra sawed away with great verve at selections from Offenbach in a worm-eaten minstrels’ gallery which was suspended over the ballroom at one end.
    Andrew Harvey was not dancing. He was standing against the far wall chatting amiably with Didi. He was thinking about what a charming and witty girl Didi was and that if he got around to settling down he could certainly do much worse. He thought briefly of Lucy and mentally shook his head. He must be getting overly susceptible in his old age.
    He had not heard Lucy or MacGregor being announced, which was not at all strange, since the cross majordomo was mangling every announcement with Gallic verve. His roar of Monsieur et Mademoiselle Bugger-Macgreeg had fallen on deaf ears. Lucy was halfway down the staircase when Andrew Harvey looked up and saw her.
    She was dressed in a gown of heavy crimson brocade, cut low over the bosom. Her midnight-black hair was tied back in a heavy knot at the base of her neck and was without ornament. She looked like a medieval princess. Andrew Harvey felt his